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Issued in a Convenient Form For the Pocket. 


Vol. 1, No. 218, July 30. 1884. Subscription $30 


Entered at the Post-Office, N. Y., as Second-Class Matter, 
Munro’s Library is issued Tri-Wcelily, 


A SEQUEL TO 

Monte-Cristo and The Countess. 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 


[AUTHORIZED EDITION, 


COPYRIGHTED 1884. BY NORMAN L, UUNEO. 






in'ru' 
















A CONTINUATION OF 


MONTE-CRISTO AND THE COUNTESS, 


AND SEQUEL TO 

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 


{AUTHORIZED EDITION.'] 
Translated from the French by J. Abarbanell. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884 , by Nor* 
man L. Munro., in the offlce of the Librarian of 
Congress^ at Washington ^ D, C, 



NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

34 & 26 VANDKWATEE ST, 




[COPYRIGHTED.] 


m SON OF MONTMISTO. 

A CONTINUATION OF 


MONTE-GBISTO AND THE GODNTESS, 


AND SEQUEL TO 

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 


CHAPTER I. 

FANE arc’s adventures. 

Spero, the son of Monte-Cristo, was peacefully sleeping in 
another room, while, gathered around the table in the dining- 
room of Fanfare’s house, were Monte-Cristo, Miss Clary, Madame 
Caramen, Coucou, and Albert de Morcerf, ready to listen to the 
story of Fanfaro’s adventures, which, as narrated at the close of 
the preceding volume, “ Monte-Cristo and The Countess,” he 
was about to begin. 

The following is Fanfaro’s narrative: 

It was about the middle of December, 1813, that a solitary 
horseman was pursuing the road which leads through the Black 
Forest from Breisach to Freiburg. The rider was a man in the 
prime of life. He wore a long brown overcoat, reaching to his 
knees, and shoes fastened with steel buckles. His powdered hair 
was combed back and tied at the back with a black band, 
while his head was covered with a cap with a projecting pc^ak. 
The evening came, and darkness spread over the vaUey; the 
Black Forest had not received its name in vain. A few miles 
from Freiburg there stands a lonely hill, named the Em- 
peror’s Chair. Dark masses of basalt formed the steps of this 
natural throne; tall evergreens stretched their branches pro- 
tectingly over the hill. A fresh mountain air is cast about by 
the big trees, and the north wind is in eternal battle with this 
giant, which it bends but can never break. 

Pierre Labarre, the solitary horseman, was the confidential 


2 


THE SON OF MONTE-CniSTO, 


servant of the Marquis de Fougereuse, and the darker the road 
became the more uncomfortable he felt. He continually spunked 
on his horse, but the tired animal at every stride struck against 
tree roots which lined the narrow path. 

/‘Quick, Margotte,” said Pierre to the animal, “you know 
how anxiously we are awaited, and besides we are the bearers 
of good news.” 

The animal appeared to understand the words, began to trot 
again at a smart pace, and for a time all went well. 

Darker and darker grew the night, the storm raged fiercer, and 
the roar of the distant river sounded like the tolling of church- 
bells. 

Pierre had now reached a hill, upon which century-old lindens 
stretched their leafless branches toward heaven; the road 
parted at this point, and the rider suddenly reined in his 
horse. One of the paths led to Breisach, the other to Gundeb- 
fingen. Pierre rose in the stirrups and cautiously glanced 
about, but then he shook his head and muttered: 

“Curious, I can discover nothing, and yet I thought I heard 
the clatter of a horse’s hoofs.” 

He mechanically put his hand in his breast-pocket and nodded 
his head in a satisfied way. 

“ The portfolio is still in the right place,” he whispered. “ For- 
ward, Margotte — we must get under shelter.” 

But just as the steed was about to start, the rider again heard 
the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the frozen ground, and in a 
twinkling a horse bounded past Pierre like the wind. It was a 
second rider who had rushed past the servant at such a rapid 
gait. 

Pierre was not superstitious, yet he felt his heart move 
quickly when the horseman galloped past him, and old legends 
about specters rose up in his mind. Perhaps the rider was the wild 
huntsman of whom he had heard so much, or what was more 
likely, it was no specter, but a robber. This last possibility 
frightened Pierre very much. He bent down and took a pistol 
out of the saddle-bag. He cocked tlie trigger and continued on 
his way, while he muttered to himself: 

“ Courage, old boy; if it should come to the worst you will kill 
your man.” 

Pierre rode on unembarrassed, and had reached a road which 
would bring him to Freiburg in less than half an hour. Suddenly 
a report was heard, and Pierre uttered a hollow groan. A 
bullet had penetrated his breast. 

Bending with pain over his horse’s neck he looked about. 
The bushes parted and a man enveloped in a long cloak sprung 
forth and rushed upon the servant. The moment he put his 
hand on the horse’s rein, Pierre raised himself and in an angry 
voice exclaimed : 

“Not so quickly, bandits!” 

At the same moment he aimed bis pistol and fired. The bandit 
uttered a moan and recoiled. But he did not sink to the ground 
as Pierre had expected. He disappeared in the darkness. A 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 8 

second shot fired after him struck in the nearest tree, and Pierre 
swore roundly. 

“Confound the Black Forest,*’ he growled as he rode along; 
“ if I had not fortunately had iny leather portfolio in my breast- 
pocket, I would be a dead man now! The scoundrel must have 
eyes like an owl; he aimed as well as if he had been on a rifle 
range. Hurry along, Margotte, or else a second highwayman 
may come and conclude what the other began.” 

The horse trotted along, and Pierre heard anew the gallop of a 
second animal. The bandit evidently desired to keep his identity 
unknown. 

“ Curious,” muttered Pierre, “ I did not see his face, but his 
voice seemed familiar. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE GOLDEN SUN. 

Mr. Schvtan, the host of the Golden Sun at Sainte-Ame, a 
market town in the Vosges, was very busy. Although the month 
of February was not an inviting one, three travelers had arrived 
that morning at the Golden Sun, and six more were expect- 
ed. 

Schwan had that morning made an onslaught on his chicken 
coop, and, while his servants were robbing the murdered hens of 
their feathers, the host walked to the door of the inn and looked 
at the sky. 

A loud laugh, which shook the windows of the inn, made 
Schwan turn round hurriedly; at the same moment two mus- 
cular arms were placed u[)on his shoulders, and a resounding 
1? Iss was pressed upon his brown cheek. 

“What is the meaning of this?” stammered the host, trying 
' 1 vain to shake off the arms which held him. “ The devil take 
• ae, but these arms must belong to my old friend Firejaws,” ex- 
daimed Schwan, now laughing; and hardly had he spoken the 
vords than the possessor of the arms, a giant seven feet tall, 
iJheerfully said: 

“Well guessed, Father Schwan. Firejaws in propria per- 
iona'^ 

While the host was cordially welcoming the new arrival, sev- 
eral servants hurried from the kitchen, and soon a bottle of wine 
and two glasses gtood upon the cleanly scoured inn table. 

“ Make yourself at home, my boy,” said Schwan, gayly, as he 
filled the glasses. 

The giant, whose figure was draped in a fantastical costume, 
grinned broadly, and did justice to the host’s invitation. The 
sharply curved nose and the large mouth with dazzling teeth, 
the full blonde hair, and the broad, muscular shoulders, were on 
a colossal scale. The tight-fitting coat of the athlete was dark 
red, the trousers were of black velvet, and richly embroidered 
shirt-sleeves made up the wonderful appearance of the man. 

“ Father Schwan, I must embrace you once more,” said the 
giant after a pause, as he stretched out his arms. 

“ Go ahead, but do not crush me,” laughed the host. 


4 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSrO. 


Are you glad to see me again?” 

“ I should say so. How are you getting along ?” 

“ Splendidly, as usual; breast is as firm still as if it were 
made of iron,” replied the giant, striking a powerful blow upon 
his breast. 

Has business been good ?” 

Oh, lam satisfied.” 

“ Where are your people?” 

“On their way here. The coach was too slow for me, so I 
left them behind and went on in advance.” 

“ Well, and — your wife?” asked the host, hesitatingh’. 

The giant closed his eyes and was silent; Schwan looked down 
at his feet, and after a pause continued: 

“ Things don’t go as they should, I suppose?” 

“ Let me tell you sometliing,” replied the giant, firmly; “ if it 
is just the same to you, I would rather not talk on that subject.” 

“ Ah, really ? Poor fellow! Yes, these women!” 

“ Not so quickly, cousin — my deceased wife was a model of a 
woman.” 

“ True; when she died I knevv^ you would never find another 
one to equal her.” 

“ My little Caillette is just like her.” 

“ Undoubtedly. When I saw the little one last, about six 
years ago, she was as pretty as a picture.” 

“ She is seventeen now, and still very handsome.” 

“ What are the relations between your wife and you ?” 

“ It couldn’t be better; Rolla cannot bear the little one.” 

The host nodded. 

“Girdel,” he said, softly, “ when you told me that day that 
you were going to marry the ‘C’annon Queen,’ I was frightened, 
fee woman’s look displeased me. Does she treat Caillette 
badly ?” 

“ She dare not touch a hair of the child’s head,” hissed the 
giant, “or ” 

“ Do not get angry; but tell me rather whether Bobichel is 
still with you?” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And Robeckal?” 

“ His time is about up.” 

“That would be no harm; and the little one?” 

“The little one?” laughed Girdel. “Well, he is about six 
feet.” 

“ You do not say so! Is he still so useful ?” 

“Cousin,” said the giant, slowly, “Fanfaro is a treasure! Do 
you know, he is of a different breed than we; no, do not con- 
tradict me, I know what I am speaking about. I am an athlete; 
I have arms like logs and hands like claws, therefore it is no 
wonder that I perform difficult exercises; but Fanfaro is tender 
and fine; he has arms and hands like a girl, and skin like velvet, 
yet he can stand more than I can. He can down two of me, yet 
he is soft and ‘shrewd, and has a heart of gold.” 

“ Then you love him as much as you used to do?” laughed the 
host, in a satisfied way. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


5 


Much more if it is possible; I ” 

The giant stopped short, and when Schwan followed the 
direction of his eye, he saw that the wagon which carried the 
fortune of Cesar Girdel had rolled into the courtyard. 

Upon four high wheels a large open box swung to and fro; on 
its four sides were various colored posts, which served to carry 
the curtains, which shut out the interior of the box from the 
eyes of the curious world. The red and white curtains were 
now cast aside, and one could see a mass of iron poles, rags, 
weights, empty barrels, hoops with and without purple silk 
paper, the use of which was not clear to profane eyes. 

The driver was dressed in yellow woolen cloth, and could at 
once be seen to be a clown; he wore a high pasteboard cap 
adorned with bells, and while he swung the whip with his right 
hand he held a trumpet in his left, which he occasionally put to 
his lips and blew a blast loud enough to wake the very stones. 
The man’s face was terribly thin, his nose was long and straight, 
and small dark eyes sparkled maliciously from under his bushy 
eyebrows. 

Behind Bobichel, for this was the clown’s name, Cailletto, the 
giant’s daughter, was seated. Her father had not overpraised 
his daughter; the tender, rosy face of the young girl had won- 
derfully refined features; deep blue soulful eyes lay half hidden 
under long, dark eyelashes, and gold-blonde locks fell over her 
white neck. Caillette appeared to be enjoying herself, for her 
silvery laugh sounded continually, while she was conversing 
with Bobichel. 

At the rear of the wagon upon a heap of bedding sat a woman 
whose dimensions were fabulous. She was about forty- five years 
of age; her face looked as if it had been chopped with an ax; the 
small eyes almost disappeared beneath the puffed cheeks, and 
the broad breast as well as the thick, red arms and claw-like 
hands were repulsive in the extreme. Bushy hair of a dirty 
yellow color hung in a confused mass over the shoulders of the 
virago, and her blue cloth jacket and woolen dress were full of 
grease spots. 

Robeckal walked beside the wagon. He was of small stature, 
b.Tt nervous and muscular. The small face lit up by shrewd 
eyes had a yellowish color; the long, thin arms would have done 
honor to a gorilla, and the elasticity of his bones was monkeyish 
in the extreme.* He wore a suit of faded blue velvet, reddish 
brown hair only half covered his head, and a mocking laugh 
lurked about the corners of his lips while he was softly speaking 
to Rolla. 

Bobichel now jumped from the wagon. Girdel hurried from 
the house and cordially exclaimed; 

“ Welcome, children; you have remained out long and are not 
hungry, are you?” 

“ I could eat pebblestones,” replied Bobichel, laughing. ‘‘ Ah, 
there is Schwan too. Well, old boy, how have you been getting 
along ?” 

While the host and the clown were holding a conversation, 
Girdel went to the wagon and stretched out his arms. 


THE SON OF MONTE^CRISTO. 


“ Jump, daughter,” he laugliingly said. 

Caillette did not hesitate long; she rose on her pretty toes and 
swung herself over the edge of the wagon into her father’s arms. 
The latter kissed her heartily on both cheeks, and then placed 
her on the ground. He then glanced around, and anxiously 
asked: 

“ Where is Fanfaro ?” 

‘‘ Here, Papa Firejaws,” came cheerfully from tlie interior of 
the wagon, and at the same moment a dark head appeared in 
sight above a large box. The head was followed by a beautifully 
formed body, and placing his hand lightly on the edge of the 
wagon, Fanfaro swung gracefully to the ground. 

‘‘ Madcap, can’t you stop turning?” scolded Girdel, laughingly; 
** go into the house and get your breakfast!” 

Caillette, Fanfaro, and Bobichel went away; Girdel turned to 
his wife and pleasantly said: 

“ Rolla, I will now help you down.” 

Rolla looked at him sharply, and then said in a rough, rasping 
voice: 

‘‘Didn’t I call you. Robeckal? come and help me down!” 

Robeckal, who had been observing the chickens in the court- 
3"ard, slowly approached the wagon. 

“ What do you want?” he asked. 

“ Help me down,” repeated Rolla. 

Girdel remained perfectly calm, but a careful observer might 
have noticed the veins on his forehead swell. He measured 
Rolla and Robeckal with a peculiar look, and before his look 
Rolla’s eyes fell. 

“ Robeckal, are you coming?” cried the virago, impatiently. 

“ What do you wish here?” asked Girdel, coolly, as Robeckal 
turned to Rolla. 

“What do I wish here?” replied Robeckal; “ Madame Girdel 
has done me the honor to call me, and ” 

“And you are thinking rather long about it,” interrupted 
Rolla, gruffly. 

“ I am here,’’ growled Robeckal, lajdng his hand upon the 
edge of the wagon. 

“No further!” commanded Girdel, in a threatening voice. 

“ Ha! who is going to prevent me?’’ 

“I, wretch!” thundered Firejaws, in whose eyes a warning 
glance shone. 

“Bah! you are getting angry about nothing,” said Robeckal, 
mockingly, placing his other hand on the <‘dge of the wagon. 

“Strike hini, Robeckal!” cried Rolla, urgingly. 

Robeckel raised his right hand, but at the same moment the 
athlete stretched him on the ground with a blow of his fist; he 
could thank his stars that Girdel had not struck him with his 
full force, or else Robeckal would never have got up agaiji. 
With a cry of rage he sprung up and threw himself upon the 
giant, who waited calmly for him with his arms quietly folded 
over his breast; a sword shone in Robeckal’s hand, and how it 
happened neither he nor Rolla knew, but immediately after he 
lay on top of the wagon, close to the Cannon Queen. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 7 

“ Enough of your rascality, Robeckal,” said the voice of him 
who had thrown the angry man upon the wagon. 

“ I thought the wretched boy would come between us again,” 
hissed Rolla; and without waiting for any further help she 
sprung from the wagon and rushed upon Fanfaro, for he it was 
who had come to Girdel’s assistance. 

“ Back, Rolla!” exclaimed Firejaws, hoarsely, as he laid his 
iron fist upon his wife’s shoulder. Schwan came to the door 
and cordially said : 

“ Where are your comrades? The soup is waiting.” 

Robeckal hurriedly glided from the wagon, and approaching 
close to Rolla, he whispered a few words in her ear. 

“Let me go, Girdel,” said the giantess. “ Who would take 
such a stupid joke in earnest ? Come, I am hungry.” 

Firejaws looked at his wife in amazement. Her face, which 
had been purple with anger, was now overspread by a broad 
grin, and shrugging his shoulders, Girdel walked toward the 
house. Fanfaro followed, and Robeckal and Rolla remained 
alone. 

“We must make an end of it, Rolla,” grumbled Robeckal. 

“ I am satisfied. The sooner the better!” 

“ Good. I shall do it to-night. See that you take a little walk 
afterward on the country road. I will meet you there and tell 
you my plan.” 

“ Do so. Let us go to dinner now, I am hungry.” 

When Rolla and Robeckal entered the dining-room, Girdel, 
Caillette, Bobichel, and Fanfaro were already sitting at table, 
and Schwan was just bringing in a hot, steaming dish. 


CHAPTER HI. 

OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 

While the hungry guests were eating, the door at the back 
of the large dining-room was very softly opened. None of the 
strangers observed this, but the host, whose eyes wars all over, 
went toward the door, at the threshold of which stood a man 
about forty years of age. The man was small and lean, and 
wore a brown overcoat trimmai with fur; the coat was cut out 
at the bosom and allowed a yellow vest and sky-blue tie to be 
seen. Trousers of dark-blue cloth reached to the knee, and his 
riding-boots, with spurs, completed the wonderfully made toilet. 

The man’s face had a disagreeable expression. He had deep 
squinting eyes, a large mouth, a broad nose, and long, bony 
fingers. 

When the host approached the stranger he bowed and respect- 
fully asked: 

“ How can I serve you, sir?” 

The stranger did not reply; his gaze was directed toward the 
table and the guests, and the host, who had observed his look, 
again repeated the question. 

The stranger walked into the middle of the room, and, seating 
himself at a table, said: 

“ Bring me a glass of brandy.” 


8 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 


“ I thought— I believed ” began the host. 

“ Do as I told you. I am expecting some one; get a good din- 
ner ready, and as soon as — the other One arrives, you can 
serve it.” 

“ It shall be attended to,” nodded Schwan, who thought the 
man was the steward of some big lord. 

Just as the host was about to leave the room, the door was 
opened again and two more travelers entered. The first comer 
threw a look at the new arrivals, and a frown crossed his ugly 
face. 

The last two who entered were entirely dissimilar. One of 
them, to judge from his upright bearing, must have formerly 
been a soldier. He was dressed plainly in civilian's clothes, and 
his bushy white mustache gave his face a threatening look; the 
deep blue eyes, however, served to soften the features. The 
other man was evidently a carman; he wore a blue linen blouse, 
leathern shoes, knee-breeches and a large round hat. When the 
host praised his kitchen to the new-comers, his words fell on 
fertile ground, for when he asked the first guest whether he 
would like to have some ham and eggs, the proposition was at 
once accepted. 

“ Where shall I serve the gentlemen?” 

For a moment there was deep silence. The guests had just 
perceived the first comer and did not seem to be impressed by 
his appearance. Nevertheless, the man who looked like a soldier 
decided that they should be served at one of the side tables. When 
he said this Gird el looked up, and his features showed that the 
new-comers were not strangers to him. The man in the brown 
overcoat laughed mockingly when he perceived that the two 
strangers chose a table as far away from his as possible. He 
looked fixedly at them, and when Schwan brought him the 
brandy he had ordered, he filled his glass and emptied it at one 
gulp. He then took some newspapers out of his j)ocket and be- 
gan to read, holding the pages in such a way as to conceal his 
face. 

The host now brought the ham and eggs. As he placed them 
on the table, the carman hastily asked: 

“ How far is it sir, from here to Remiremont?” 

“ To Remiremont ? Ah, 1 see the gentlemen do not belong to 
the vicinity. To Remiremont is about two hours.” 

‘‘So much the better; we can get there then in the course of 
the afternoon.” 

“ That is a question,” remarked Schwan. 

“ How so ? What do you mean ?” 

“ The road is very bad,” he replied. 

“ That won’t be so very dangerous.” 

“ Oh, but the floods!” 

“ What’s the matter with the fioods?” said the old soldier. 

“ The enormous rainfall of the last few weeks has swollen all 
the mountain lakes,” said the host, vivaciously, “ and the road 
to Remiremont is under water, so that it would be impossible 
for you to pass.” 

“ That would be bad,” exclaimed the carman, excitedly. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


9 


It would be dangerous,” remarked the old soldier. 

“ Oh, yes, sir; last year two travelers were drowned between 
Sainte-Ame and Remiremont; to tell the truth, the gentlemen 
looked like you!” 

“ Thanks for the compliment!” 

‘‘ The gentlemen probably had no guide,” said the carman. 

“ No.” 

“ Well, we shall take a guide along; can you get one for us ?” 

“ To-morrow, but not to-day.” 

“Why not?” 

Because my people are busy; but to-morrow it can be done.” 

In the meantime, the acrobats had finished their meal. Girdel 
arose, and drawing close to the travelers, said: 

“ If the gentlemen desire, they can go with us to-morrow to 
Remiremont.” 

“Oh, that is a good idea,” said the host gleefully; “accept, 
gentlemen. If Girdel conducts you, you can risk it without any 
fear.” 

In spite of the uncommon appearance of the athlete, the stran- 
gers did not hesitate to accept GirdeFs offer; they exchanged 
glances, and the soldier said : 

“ Accepted, sir; we are strangers here, and would have surely 
lost ourselves. When do you expect to go?” 

“ To-morrow morning. " To-night we give a performance here, 
and with the dawn of day we start for Remiremont.” 

“ Good. Can I invite you now to join us in a glass of wine?” 

Girdel protested more politely than earnestly; Schwan brought 
a bottle and glasses, and the giant sat down by the strangers. 

While this was going on, the first comer appeared to be deeply 
immersed in the paper, though he had not lost a word of the con- 
versation, and as Firejaws took a seat near the strangers, he 
began again to laugh mockingly. 

Robeckal and Rolla now left the dining-room, while Fanfaro, 
Caillette and Bobichel still remained seated; a minute later 
Robeckal returned, and drawing near to Girdel, softly said to 
him: 

“ Master.” ‘ - 

“Well?” 

“ Do you need me?” 

“What for?” 

“ To erect the booth?” 

“ No, Fanfaro and Bobichel will attend to it.” 

“ Then good-bye for the present.” 

Rboeckal left. Hardly had the door closed behind him, than 
the man in the brown overcoat stopped reading his paper and 
left the room too. 

“ One word, friend,” he said to Robeckal. 

“ Quick, what does it concern ?” 

“ Twenty francs for you, if you answer me properly,” 

“Go ahead.” 

“ What is this Firejaws ?” 

“Athlete, acrobat, wrestler— anything you please.” 

“ What is his right name?” 


10 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


Girdel, Cesar Girdel.” 

“ Do you know the men with whom he just spoke?” 

“No.” 

“ You hate Girdel ?” 

“ Who told you so, and what is it your business ?” 

“ Ah, a great deal. If you hate him we can make a common 
thing of it. You belong to his troupe ?” 

“Yes, for the present.” 

“ Bah, long enc»ugh to earn a few gold pieces yet.” 

“ What is asked of me for that ?” 

“ You ? not much. You shall have an opportunity to pay back 
the athlete everything you owe him in the way of hate, and be- 
sides you will be well rewarded.” 

Robeckal shrugged his shoulders. 

“Humbug,” he said, indifferently. 

“ No, I mean it seriously.” 

“ I should like it to be done,” replied Robeckal, dryly. 

“ Here are twenty francs in advance.” 

Robeckal stretched out his hand for the gold piece, let it fall 
into his pocket, and disappeared without a word. 

“ You have come too late, my friend,” he laughed to himself. 
“ Girdel will be a dead man before the morrow comes, as sure as 
my name is Robeckal.” 

In the meantime Girdel continued to converse with the two 
gentlemen; Schwan went here and there, and Fanfaro, Caillette 
and Bobichel were waiting for the athlete’s orders for the even- 
ing performance. 

“ How goes it?” asked the carman, now softly. 

“Good,” replied Girdel, in the same tone. 

“ The peasants are prepared ?” 

“ Yes. The seed is ripe. They are only waiting for the order 
to begin to sow. 

“We must speak about this matter at greater length, but not 
here. Did you notice the man who was reading the paper over 
there a little while ago?” 

“ Yes; he did not look as if he could instill confidence into any 
one; I think he must be a lackey.” 

“ He could be a spy too; when can we speak to one another 
undisturbed ?” 

“ This evening after the performance, either in your room or 
in mine.” 

“ Let it be in yours; we can wait until the others sleep; let 
your door remain open, Girdel.” 

“ I will not fail to do so.” 

“ ^hen it is settled; keep mum. No one must know of our 
presence here.” 

“ Not even Fanfaro?” 

“ No, not for any price.” 

“ But you do not distrust him ? He is a splendid fellow ” 

“ So much the better for him; nevertheless, he must not know 
anything. I can tell you the reason: we wished to speak about 
him ; we desire to intrust certain things with him.” 

“You couldn’t find a better person.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 


11 


I believe it- Good-bye, now, until to-night.” 

“ Au revoir /” 

“ Sir,” said the carman, now aloud, we accept your proposal 
with thanks, and hope to reach Remiremont to-morrow with 
your help.” 

“You shall.” 

Girdel turned now to Fanfaro, and gayly cried: 

“ To work, my son; we must dazzle the inhabitants of Sainte- 
Amel Cousin ^hwan, have we got permission to give our per- 
formance ? You are the acting mayor.” 

“ I am,” replied Schwan; “ hand in your petition; here is some 
stamped paper.” 

“Fanfaro, write what is necessary,” ordered Girdel; “you 
know I’m not much in that line.” 

“If you are not a man of the pen, you are a man of the 
heart,” laughed Fanfaro, as he quickly wrote a few lines on the 
paper. ^ 

“Flatterer,” scolded Girdel. “Forward, Bobichel: bring me 
the work-box; the people will find out to-night that they will 
s^"e something.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

Half an hour later the inhabitants of Sainte-Ame crowded 
about the open place in front of the Golden Sun. They seldom 
had an opportunity of seeing anything like this, for very few trav- 
eling shows ever visited the small Lorraine village; and with al- 
most childish joy the spectators gazed at Bobichel, Fanfaro, and 
Girdel, who were engaged in erecting the booth. The work went 
on briskly. The posts which had been run into the ground were 
covered with many-colored cloths, and a hurriedly arranged 
wooden roof protected the interior of the tent from the weather. 
Four wooden stairs led to the right of the entrance, where the 
box-office was; this latter was made of a primitive wooden table, 
on which was a faded velvet cover, embroidered with golden ara- 
besques and cabalistic signs. All the outer walls of the t 30 oth were 
covered with yellow bills, upon which could be read that “ Signor 
Fi re ja ws ” would lift with his teeth red-hot irons of fabulous 
weight, swallow buniing lead, and perform the most startling 
acrobatic tricks. Rolla, the Cannon Queen, would catch cannon 
balls shot from a gun, and do other tricks; at the same time tho 
bill said she would eat pigeons alive, and with their feathers on. 
Caillette, the “daughter of the air,” as she was called, would 
send the spectators into ecstasies by her performance on the 
tight rope, and sing songs. Robeckal, the “descendant of the 
old Moorish kings,” would swallow swords, eat glass, shave 
kegs with his teeth; and Fanfaro would perform on the trapeze, 
give his magic acts, and daze the public with his extraordinary 
productions. A pyramid, formed of all the members of the 
troupe, at the top of which Caillette shone with a rose in her 
hand, stood at the bottom of the bills in red colors, and was 
gazed upon by the peasants in open mouthed wonder. The ham- 


12 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


mering which went on in the interior of the booth sounded to 
them like music, and they could hardly await the night, which 
was to bring them so many magnificent things. 

Girdel walked up and down in a dignified way and the crowd 
respectfully made way for him, while the giant, in stentorian 
tones, gave the orders to Fanfaro and Bobichel. 

Bobichel’s name was not on the bills; he was to surprise the 
public as a clown, and therefore his name was never mentioned. 
He generally amused the spectators in a comical way, and al- 
ways made them laugh; even now, when he had finished his 
work, he mingled with the peasants and delighted them with 
his jokes. 

Fanfaro and Caillette were still engaged constructing the 
booth. The young man arranged the wooden seats and the 
giant’s daughter hung the colored curtains, which covered the 
bare wails, putting here and there artificial flowers on them. 
Sometimes Caillette would pause in her work, to look at Fanfaro 
with her deep blue eyes. 

Fanfaro was now done with the seats and began to fasten two • 
trapezes. They hung to a center log by iron hooks, and were 
about twelve feet from the ground and about as far distant from 
each other. 

Fanfaro lightly swimg upon the center log and hammered in 
the iron hooks with powerful blows. 

The wonderfully fine- shaped body was seen to advantage in 
this position, and a sculptor would have enthusiastically observ- 
ed the classical outlines of the young man, whose dark tights 
fitted him like a glove. 

Fanfare’s hands and feet were as small as those of a woman, 
but, as Girdel had said, his muscles and veins were as hard as 
iron. 

The iron hooks were fast now, and the young man swung him- 
self upon a plank; he then glided down one trapeze, and with a 
quick movement grasped the other. 

Like an arrow the slim body shot through the air, and then 
Fanfaro sprung lightly to the ground, while the trapeze flew 
back. 

At the very moment the young man let go of the trapeze a 
faint scream was heard, and Caillette, deadly pale, stood next to 
Fanfaro. 

“ How you frightened me, you wicked fellow,” said the young 
girl, drawing a deep breath. 

“ Were you really frightened, Caillette? I thought you would 
have got used to my exercises long ago.” 

I ought to be so,” pouted Caillette, pressing her hands to her 
fast- beating heart, “but every time I see you fly, fear seizes 
hold of me and I unconsciously cry aloud. Oh, Fanfaro, if an 
accident should happen to you — I would not survive it.” 

“ Little sister, you are needlessly alarming yourself.” 

Caillette held down her pretty little head and the hot blood 
rushed to her velvety cheeks, while her hands nervously clutched 
each other. 

“ Caillette, what ails you?” asked Fanfaro. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CniSTO, 13 

Oh— tell me, Fanfare, why do you always call me ‘little 
sister ’ 

“Does the expression displease you, mademoiselle ?*’ laughr 
ingly said the young man; “is it the word ‘ little,’ or the word 
* sister ’ ?” 

“ I did not say the expression displeased me.” 

“ Should I call you my big sister ?” 

“ Why do you call me sister at all ?” 

A cloud spread over the young man*s face. 

“Did we not grow up together like brother and sister?” he 
asked; you were six years old when your father took the de- 
serted .boy to his home.” 

“ But you are not my brother,” persisted Caillette. 

“ Perhaps not in the sense commonly associated with the 
term, but yet I love you like a brother. Don’t this e?:planation 
please you ?” 

“ Yes and no. I wished ” 

“ What would you wish?” 

“I had rather not say it,” whispered Caillette, and hastily 
throwing her arms about Fanfaro she kissed him heartily. 

Fanfaro did not return the kiss; on the contrary he turned 
away and worked at the trapeze cord. He divined what was 
going on in Caillette, as many words hastily spoken had told the 
young man that the young girl loved him not like the sister 
loves the brother, but with a more passionate love. Caillette was 
still unaware of it, but every day, every hour could explain her 
feelings to her, and Fanfaro feared that moment, for he — did not 
love her. 

How was this possible? He could hardly account for it him- 
self. Caillette was so charming, and yet he could not think of 
the lovely creature as his wife; and as an honest man it did not 
enter his mind to deceive the young girl as to his feelings. 

“ Caillette,” he said, now trying to appear cheerful, “we must 
hniTy up with our preparations, or the performance will begin 
before we are done.” 

Caillette nodded and taking her artifical flowers again in her 
hand, she began to separate them. At the same time the door 
opened and Firejaws appeared in company with two ladies. 
Fanfaro and Caillette glanced at the unexpected guests and 
heard the elderly lady say: 

“ Irene, what new caprice is it that brings you here, and what 
will the countess say if she hears it ?” 

“ Madame Ursula, spare your curtain lectures,” laughed the 
young lady; “ and if you cannot do so, you are free to return to 
the castle.” 

“ God forbid,” exclaimed Madame Ursula in affright. 

She was a perfect type of the governess, with long thin feat- 
ures, pointed nose, small lips, gray locks, and spectacles. She 
wore a hat which fell to her neck and a long colored shawl hung 
over her shoulders. 

The appearance of the young lady compared very favorably 
with that of the duenna. A dark-blue riding costume sat tightly 
on a magnificent form; a brown velvet hat with a long white 


14 


THE SON OF IIONTE-^CBISTO. 


feather sat coquettishly on her dark locks; fresh red lips, spark- 
ling black eyes, a classically formed nose, and finely curved lips 
completed her charming appearance. The young lady appeared 
to be about eighteen or nineteen years old; a proud smile hover- 
ed about her lips and the dark eyes looked curiously about. 

Fanfaro and Caillette paused at their work, and now the young 
girl exclaimed in a clear bell-like voice: 

‘‘ Monsieur Girdel, would it be possible for me to secure a few 
places for this evening; that is, some that are hid from the rest 
of the spectators 

‘‘ H’ml that would be difiicult,” said Girdel, looking about. 

“Of course I shall pay extra for the seats,” continued the 
young lady. 

“We have only one pricer for the front rows,” said Fire jaws, 
simply; “ they cost twenty sous and the rear seats ten sous.” 

The governess sighed sorrowfully ; Irene took an elegant purse 
from her pocket and pressed it in Girdel’s hand. 

“ Take the money,” she said, “ and do what I say.” 

“I will try to get you the seats you desire, mademoiselle,” he 
said politely, “ but only for the usual price. Fanfaro,” he said, 
turning to the young man, “ can’t we possibly fix up a box ?” 

Fanfaro drew near, and the young lady with open wonder 
gazed at the beautiful youth. 

“What’s the trouble. Papa Girdel?” he said. 

Before the giant could speak Irene said: 

“ I do not ask very much. I would like to look at the per- 
formance, but naturally would not like to sit with the crowd. 
You know, peasants and such common people ” 

“H’ml” growled Girdel. 

“ It is impossible,” said Fanfaro, coolly. 

“Impossible?” repeated the young lady in amazement. 

“ But, Fanfaro,” interrupted Girdel,” I should think we could 
do it. A few boards, a carpet, and the thing is done.” 

“ Perhaps, but I shall not touch a finger to it.” 

“You refuse ?” exclaimed Irene. “ Why, if I may ask ?” 

“Bravo, Fanfaro!” whispered Caillette, softly. 

“Will you answer my question, monsieur? — I do not know 
your name,” said Irene, impatiently, 

“ I am called Fanfaro,” remarked the young man. 

“ Well then. Monsieur Fanfaro,” began Irene, with a mocking 
laugh, “ why do you refuse to lend your master a helping 
hand ?” 

“ His master?” replied Girdel, with flaming eyes; “ excuse me, 
mademoiselle, but you have been incorrectly informed.” 

“ Come, Papa Girdel,” laughed Fanfaro, “I will tell the young 
lady my reasons, and I think you will approve of them. The 
public of ‘ peasants,’ and such ‘common people,’ w^ho are so re- 
pulsive to you, mademoiselle, that you do not desire to touch 
them with the seam of your dress, admire us and provide us with 
our sustenance. The hands which applaud us are coarse, I can- 
not deny it; but in spite of this, we regard their applause just as 
highly as that given to us by people whose hands are incased in 
fine kid gloves. To give you an especial -box, mademoiselle, 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 16 

would be an insult to the peasants, and why should we do such 
a thing. Am I right or not?” 

While Fanfaro was speaking, Irene looked steadily at his 
handsome face. The governess muttered something about 
impertinence. When the young man looked up, Irene softly 
said: 

That was a sharp lesson.” 

‘‘No, I merely told you my opinion.” 

“Good. Now let me give you my answer; I will come this 
eveningl” 

“ I thought so,” replied Fanfaro simply. 


CHAPTER V. 

MASTER AND SERVANT. 

When the young lady and her governess left the booth and 
wended their way along the country road, the peasants respect- 
fully made way for them and even Bobichel paused in his 
tricks. Irene held her little head sideways as she walked 
through the crowd, while the governess marched with proudly 
uplifted head. 

“ Thank God,” said Madame Ursula, “there is the carriage.” 

An elegant equipage came in sight, and a groom led a beauti- 
ful racer by the bridle. 

“ Step in Madame Ursula,” said Irene, laughing, as she vaulted 
into the saddle. 

“ But you promised me — — ” 

“ To be at the castle the same time as you,” added the young 
lady. “ And I shall keep my promise. Forward Almanserl” 

The horse flew along like an arrow * and Madame Ursula, sigh- 
ing, got into the carriage, which started otf in the same direc- 
tion. 

“ Who is the handsome lady?” asked Bobichel. 

“ The richest heiress in Alsace and Lorriane, Mademoiselle de 
Salves,” was the answer. 

“ Ah, she suits me,” said the clown. 

“ Bah, she is as proud as a peacock,” growled an old peasant. 

“It is all the same to me,” said a second peasant; “she is 
going to be married to a gentleman in Paris, and there she fits 
better.” 

A heavy mail-coach, which halted at the Golden Sun, in- 
terrupted the conversation. Mr. Schwan ran to the door to re- 
ceive the travelers, and at the same moment the man in the 
brown overcoat appeared at the threshold of the door. Hardly 
had he seen the mail-coach, than he hurried to open the door, 
and in a cringing voice said; 

“ Welcome, Monsieur le Marquis; my letter arrived, then, op- 
portunely ?” 

The occupant of the coach nodded, and leaning on the other’s 
arm, he got out. It was the Marquis of Fougereuse. He looked 
like a man prematurely old, whose bent back and wrinkled feat- 
ures made him look like a man of seventy, while in reality he 
was hardly fifty 


16 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


In the marquis’ company was a servant named Simon, who, in 
the course of years, had advanced from the post of valet to that 
of steward. 

‘‘ What does the gentleman desire T* asked the host, politely. 

“Let the dinner be served in my room,” ordered Simon; and, 
giving the marquis a nod, he strode to the upper story in ad- 
vance of him. 

The door which Simon opened showed an elegantly furnished 
room according to Sch wan’s ideas, yet the marquis appeared to 
pay no attention to his surroundings, for he hardly gazed around, 
and in a state of exhaustion sank into a chair. Simon stood at 
the window and looked out, while the host hurriedly set the 
table; when this was finished, Simon winked to Sch wan and 
softly said: 

“ Leave the room now, and do not enter it until I call for you.” 

“ If the gentlemen wish anything ” 

“ I know, I know,” interrupted Simon, impatiently. “ Listen 
to what I say. You would do well to keep silent about the pur- 
pose of my master’s visit here. In case any one asks you, sim- 
ply say you know nothing.” 

“Neither I do,” remarked Schwan. 

“ So much the better, then you do not need to tell a lie; I ad- 
vise you in your own interest not to say anything.” 

The host went away and growled on the stairs: 

“ Confound big people and their servants. I prefer guests like 
Girdel and his troupe.” 

As soon as the door had closed behind Schwan, Simon ap* 
proached the marquis. 

“ We are alone, master,” he said timidly. 

“Then speak, have you discovered Pierre Labarre’s resi- 
dence ?” 

“Yes, master.” 

“ But you have not gone to see him yet ?*’ 

“No, I kept within y^our orders.” 

“ You were right. I must daze the old scoundrel through my 
sudden appearance; I hope to get the secret from him.” 

“Is everything better now, master?” asked Simon, after a 
pause. 

“Better? What are you thinking of?” exclaimed the mar- 
quis, angrily. “ Every one has conspired against me, and ruin is 
near at hand.” 

“ But the protection of his majesty ” 

“ Bah ! the protection of the king is useless, if the cabinet 
hate me. Besides. I have had the misfortune to anger Madame 
de Foucheres, and since then everything has gone wrong.” 

“ The king cannot have forgotten what you did for him,’* said 
Simon. 

“A few weeks ago I was driven to the wall by my creditors, 
and I went to the king and stated my case to him. Do you know 
what his answer was? ‘Monsieur,’ he said earnestly, ‘a 
Fougereuse should not demean himself by begging,’ and with 
that he gave me a draft for eighty thousand francs! What are 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


17 


eighty thousand francs for a man in my position ? A drop of 
water on a hot stove.” 

Simon nodded. 

“ But the vicomte,” he observed, ‘‘ his majesty showers favors 
upon him 

“ I am much obliged for the favors! Yes, my son is spoken 
of, but in what a ^vay ? The vicomte gambles, the vicomte is 
always in a scrape, the vicomte is the hero of the worst advent- 
ures— and kind friends never fail to tell me all about it! I hope 
his marriage will put a stop to all this business. Have you heard 
anything further of the De Salves ladies ?” 

‘‘Not much, but enough. The estate of the young heiress is 
the largest for miles about, and she herself is a beauty of the 
first class.” . - 

“ So much the better. Think of it- four millions! Oh, if this 
should be lost to us!” 

“ That will hardly be the case. Monsieur le Marquis; the mar- 
riage has been decided upon. ” 

“Certainly, certainly, but then — if the old countess should 
find out about our pecuniary embarrassments all would be lost. 
But no, I will not despair; Pierre Labarre must talk, and 
then ” 

“ Suppose he won’t ? Old people are sometimes obstinate.” 

“ Have no fear, Simon, my methods have subdued many 
wills.” 

“ Yes, yes, you are right, sir,” laughed Simon. 

“ I can rely on you, then ?” 

“ Perfectly so, sir. If it was necessary I would pick it up 
with ten Pierres!” 

“You will find me grateful,” said the marquis. “ If Pierre 
Labarre gives the fortune to the Fougereuse and the vicomte 
becomes the husband of the countess, we will be saved.” 

“ I know that you have brilliant prospects, my lord,” replied 
Simon, “ and I hope to win your confidence. The last few weeks 
I had an opportunity to do a favor to the family of my honored 
master.” 

“Iteally? You arouse my curiosity.” 

“ My lord. Monsieur Franchet honored me with his confidence.” 

The marquis looked in amazement at his steward; Franchet 
was the superintendent of police. Recommended by the Duke of 
Montmorency, he was an especial favorite of the Society of Jesus. 
The Jesuits had spun their nets over the whole of France, and 
the secret orders emanated from the Rue de Vaugirard. Fran- 
chet had the reins of the police department in his hands, and 
used his power for the furtherance of the Jesuits’ plans. The 
amazement which seized the marquis when he heard that his 
steward was the confidant of Franchet, was only natural; that 
Simon would make a good spy, Fougereuse knew very well. 

“ Go on ” he softly said, when Simon paused. 

“ Thanks to the superintendent’s confidence in me,” said 
Simon, “ I am able to secure a much more influential position at 
court for Monsieur le Marquis than he has at present.” 


18 


THE SON OF iMONTE-CRISTO. 


“ And how are you going to perform the miracle ?*" asked the 
marquis, skeptically. 

“ By allowing Monseur le Marquis to take part in my projects 
for the good of the monarchy.” 

“ Speak more clearly,” ordered the marquis, briefly. 

“ Directly.” 

Simon went close to his master, and whispered: 

“ There exists a daugerous conspiracy against the state. 
People wish to overturn the government and depose the king.” 

“ Folly! that has been often desired.” 

“ But "this time it is serious. A republican society ” 

** Do not speak to me about republicans!” exclaimed Fouge- 
reuse, angrily. 

“Let me finish, Monsieur le Marquis. My news is au- 
thentic. The attempt will perhaps be made in a few weeks, 
and then it will be a question of sauve qui pent ! Through a 
wonderful chain of circumstances the plans of the secret society 
came into my hands. I could go to the king now and name him 
all the conspirators who threaten his life, but what would be my 
reward? With a servant little ado is made. His information 
is taken, its truth secretly looked into, and he is given a small 
sum of money with a letter saying that he must have been de- 
ceived. If the Marquis of Fougereuse, on the other hand, should 
come, he is immediately master of the situation. The matter is 
investigated, the king calls him his savior, and his fortune is 
made.” 

The marquis sprung up in excitement. 

“And you are in a position to give me the plans of this so- 
ciety? You know who the conspirators are?” he exclaimed, 
with sparkling eyes. 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“ You would allow me to reap the profit of your discovery ?” 

“Yes, my lord; I am in the first place a faithful servant.” 

“ Simon, let us stop this talk with turned down cards. What 
do you wish in return ?” 

“ Nothing, my lord; I depend upon your generosity.” 

“You shall not have cause to regret it,” said the marquis, 
drawing a deep breath. “Should I succeed in securing an 
infiuential position at court, you shall be the first to profit by 
it.” 

“ Thanks, my lord. I know I can count on your word. To 
come back to Pierre Labarre, I think we should hunt him up as 
soon as possible.” 

“ 1 am ready; where does he live?” 

“ At Yagney, about three hours distant.” 

“It is now three o'clock,” said the marquis, pulling out his 
watch. “ If we start now, we will be able to return to-night.” 

“ Then I shall order horses at once!” 

Simon went away, and the marquis remained behind think- 
ing. No matter where he looked, the past, present, and future 
were alike blue to him. 

The old marquis had died in 1817, and the vicomte had im- 
mediately set about to have the death of his brother, which had 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


19 


taken place at Leigoutte in 1814, confirmed. Both the wife and 
the children of Jules Fougeres had disappeared since that catas- 
trophe, and so the Vicomte of Talizac, now Marquis of Fou- 
gereuse, claimed possession of his father’s estate. 

But, strange to say, the legacy was far less than the vicomte 
and Madeleine had expected, and as they both had contracted 
big debts on the strength of it, nothing was left to them but to 
sell a portion of the grounds. 

Had the marquis and his wife not lived so extravagantly they 
would not have tumbled from one difficulty into the other, but 
the desire to cut a figure in the Faubourg St. Germain consumed 
vast sums, and what the parents left over, the son gambled 
awaj^ and dissipated. 

Petted and spoiled by his mother, the Vicomte de Talizac was 
a fast youth before he had attained his fifteenth year. No 
greater pleasure could be given his mother than to tell her, that 
her son was the leader of the jevnesse doree. He understood 
how to let the money fiy, and when, the marquis, alarmed at his 
son’s extravagance, reproached his wife, the latter cut him sh6rt 
by saying: 

* ‘‘Once for all, Jean, my son was not made to save; he is the 
heir of the Fougereuse, and must keep up his position.” 

‘'But in this way we will soon be beggars,” complained the 
marquis. 

“ Is that my fault ?” asked Madame Madeleine, sharply. “ What 
good is it that you — put your brother out of the way ? His por- 
tion of the fortune is kept from you, and if you do not force 
Pierre Labarre to speak, you will have to go without it.” 

. “ Then you think Pierre Labarre knows where the major part 
of my father’s fortune is ?” asked the marquis. 

“ Certainly. He and no one else has it in safe keeping, and if 
you do not hurry up, the old man might die, and we can look 
on.” • 

The marquis sighed. This was not the first time Madeleine pro- 
voked him against Pierre Labarre, but the old man had disap- 
peared since the death of his master, and it required a long time 
before Simon, the worthy assistant of the marquis, found out his 
residence. 

In the meantime the position of the Fougereuses was getting 
worse and worse. At court murmurs were heard about swin- 
dling speculations in which the marquis’ name was connected, 
and the vicomte did his best to drag the proud old name in the 
dust. A rescue was at hand, in a marriage of the vicomte with 
the young Countess of Salves, but this rescue rested on a weak 
footing, as a new escapade of “ The Talizac Buckle,” as the heir 
of the Fougereuse was mockingly called, might destroy the 
planned union. 

Talizac was the hero of all the scandals of Paris; he sought 
and found his companions in very peculiar regions, and several 
duels he had fought, had made his name, if not celebrated, at 
least disreputable. 

This was the position of the marquis’ affairs when Simon 
found Pierre Labarre; the marquis was determined not to re- 


20 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO 


turn to Pari« without first having settled the affair, and as Si- 
mon now returned to the room with the host, his master ex- 
claimed: 

‘‘ Are the horses ready?” 

** No, my lord; the Cure has overflowed in consequence of the 
heavy rains, and the road from here to Vagney is impassable.” 

“Can we not reach Vagney by any other way ?” 

“ No, my lord.” 

“ Bah I the peasants exaggerate the danger so as to get in- 
creased prices for their services. Have you tried to get horses ?” 

“Yes, my lord; but unfortunately no one in the village except 
the host owns any.” 

“Then buy the host’s horses.” 

“ He refuses 'to give me the animals. An acrobat who came 
here this morning, and who owns two horses, refused to sell 
them to me.” 

“That looks almost like a conspiracy!” exclaimed the mar- 
quis. 

“1 think so too, and if I am permitted an advice ” 

“ Speak freely; what do you mean?” 

“ That the best thing w^e can do is to start at once on foot. If 
we hurry, we can reach Vagney this evening, and the rest will 
take care of itself.” 

“You are right,’* replied the marquis; “let us go.” 

Schwan was frightened when he heard of their intention, but 
the marquis remained determined, and the two were soon on the 
road. 

“If no accident happens,” growled the host to himseif, “ the 
Cure is a treacherous sheet of water; I wish they were already 
back again.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PERFORMANCE. 

While the marquis and Simon were starting on their journey, 
Robeckal and Rolla had met on the country road as appointed, 
and in a long whispering conversation had made their plans. 
They both hated Girdel, Caillette, Fanfaro and Bobichel, and 
their idea was to kill both Girdel and Fanfaro that very evening. 
Caillette could be attended to afterward, and Bobichel was of no 
importance. Rolla loved Robeckal, as far as it was possible for 
a person like her to love any one, and desired to possess him. 
Robeckal, on his side, thought it would not be a bad idea to 
possess Girdel’s business along with its stock, to which he ungal- 
lantly reckoned Rolla and Caillette. Caillette especially he 
admired, but he was smart enough not to say a word to Rolla. 

“ Enter, ladies and gentlemen, enter,” exclaimed Bobichel ns 
he stood at the box-office and cordially greeted the crowds f 
people. 

“I wonder whether she will come?” muttered Caillette to 
herself. 

“Everything is ready” whispered Robeckal to Rolla; the 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. §1 

Cannon Queen nodded and threw dark scowls at Girdel and 
Fanfaro. 

The quick gallop of a horse was now heard, and the next min- 
ute Irene de Salves stepped into the booth. 

“Really, she has come,” muttered Caillette in a daze, as she 
pressed her hand to her heart and looked searchingly at Fanfaro. 

The latter looked neither to the right nor left. He was busy 
arranging Girdel’s weights and iron poles, and Caillette, calmed 
by the sight, turned around. 

When Irene took her seat a murmur ran through the crowded 
house. The Salves had always occupied an influential position 
in the country; the great estate or the family insured them 
power and influence at court, and they were closely attached to 
the monarchy. 

Irene’s grandfather, the old Count of Salves, had been guil- 
lotined in 1793; his son had served under Napoleon, and was 
killed in Russia when his daughter had hardly reached her third 
year. The count’s loss struck the countess to the heart; she re- 
tired to her castle in the neighborhood of Remiremont and at- 
tended to the education of her child. 

Irene grew up, and when she often showed an obstinacy and 
wildness strange in a girl, her mother would say, with tears in 
her eyes: 

“ Thank God, she is the picture of her father.” 

That nothing was done under the circumstances to curb 
Irene’s impetuosity, is self-understcod. Every caprice of the 
young heiress was satisfled, and so it ca^me about that the pre- 
cocious child ruled the castle. She thought with money any- 
thing could be done, and more than once it happened that the 
young girl while hunting trod down the peasants’ fields, consoling 
herself with the thought: 

“Mamma gives these people money, and therefore it is all 
right.” 

When Irene was about fifteen years old her mother became 
dangerously ill, and remained several months in bed. She 
never recovered the use of her limbs, and day after day she re- 
mained in her arm-chair, only living in the sight of her daugh- 
ter. When Irene entered the room the poor mother thought 
the sun was rising, and she never grew tired of looking in her 
daughter’s clear eyes and listening to her silvery voice. The 
most singular contradictions reigned in Irene’s soul; she could 
have cned bitterly one minute, and laughed aloud the next; for 
hours at a time she would sit dreaming at the window, and 
look out at the autumnal forest scenery, then spring up, 
hurry out, jump into the saddle and bound over hill and val- 
ley. Sometimes she would chase a beggar from the door, the 
next day overload him with presents; she spent nights at the 
bedside of a sick village child, and carried an old woman at 
the risk of her life, from a burning house; ii> short she was am 
original. 

A few months before the lawyer, who administered the count- 
ess’ fortune, had appeared at the castle and had locked himself 
up with her mother. When he left the castle the next day, the 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


2 :^ 

youDg lady was informed that she was to be married off, and re- 
ceived the news with the greatest unconcern. She did not know 
her future husband, the Vicomte de Talizac, but thought she 
would be able to get along with him. That she would have to 
leave her castle and her woods displeased her; she had never 
had the slightest longing for Paris, and the crowded streets of 
the capital were intolerable to her; but seeing that it must be 
she did not complain. 

It was a wild caprice which had induced the young girl to at- 
tend Girdebs performance; Fanfare’s lecture had angered her at 
first, but later on, when she thought about it, she had to confess 
that he was right. She was now looking expectantly at the 
young man, who was engaged with Bobichel in lighting the few 
lamps, and wdien he drew^ near to her, she whispered to him; 

‘‘Monsieur Fanfaro, are you satisfied with me?” 

Fanfaro looked at her in amazement, but a cordial smile flew 
over his lips, and Irene felt that she could stand many more in- 
sults if she could see him smile oftener. 

Madame Ui'sula, who sat next to her pupil, moved up and 
down uneasily in her chair. Irene did not possess the least 
savoir vivre. How could she think of addressing the young 
acrobat ? and now — no, it surpassed everything — he bent over her 
and whispered a few words in her ear. The governess saw 
Irene blush, then let her head fall and nod. What could he 
have said to her ? 

Caillette, too, had noticed the young lady address Fanfaro, 
and she became violently jealous. 

What business had the rich heiress with the young man, 
whom she w^as accustomed to look upon as her own property ? 

For Caillette, as well as Madame Ursula, it w^as fortunate 
that they had not heard Fanfare’s words, and yet it was only 
good advice which the young man had given Irene. 

“ Mademoiselle, try to secure the love of those who surround 
you,” he had earnestly said. And Irene had, at first impatient- 
ly and with astonishment, finally guiltily, listened to him. 
Really, when she thought wdth what indifference her coming 
and going in the village w’^as lo*oked upon, and with what hesita- 
tion she was greeted, she began to think Fanfaro was right; the 
young man had been gone long, and yet his words still sounded 
in her ears. Yes, she would try to secure love. 

In the meantime the performance had begun. Girdel played 
with his weights, Rolla swallowed stones and pigeons, Ro- 
beckal knives and swords, and Caillette danced charmingly on 
the tight-rope. During all these different productions, Fanfaro 
was continually assisting the performers; he handed Girdel 
the weights and took them from him; he accompanied Ro- 
beckal’s sword exercise with hollow beats on a tambourine; 
he played the violin while Caillette danced on the rope, and 
acted as Bobichel’s foil in his comic acts. Fanfaro himself was 
not to appear before the second part; for the conclusion of 
the first part a climax was to be given in which Girdel 
would perform a piece in which he had everywhere appeared 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 23 

with thunders of applause; the necessary apparatus was being 
prepared. 

This apparatus consisted of a plank supported by two logs 
which stood upright in the center of the circus. In the center 
of the plank was a windlass, from which hung an iron chain 
with a large hook. 

Fanfaro rolled an empty barrel under the plank and filled it 
with irons and stones weighing about three thousand pounds. 
Thereupon the barrel was nailed shut and the chain wound about 
it; strong iron rings, througli which the chain was pulled, pre- 
vented it from slipping off: 

Girdel now walked ^p. He wore a costume made of black 
tights, and a chin band from which an iron hook hung. He 
bowed to the spectators, seized the barrel with his chin hook and 
laid himself upon his back. Fanfaro stood next to his foster- 
father, and from time to time blew a blast with his trumpet. At 
every tone the heavy cask rose a few inches in the air, and 
breathlessly the crowd looked at Girdel’s performance. The cask 
had now reached a height on a level with Girdel; the spectators 
cheered, but suddenly an ominous breaking was heard, and while 
a cry of horror ran through the crowd, Fanfaro, quick as thought, 
sprung upon the cask and caught it in his arms. 

What had happened ? Girdel lay motionless on the ground, 
Fanfaro let the heavy cask glide gently to the fioor and then 
stood pale as death near the athlete. The chain had broken, and 
had it not* been for Fan faro’s timely assistance .Gii’del would 
have been crushed to pieces by the heavy barrel. 

The violent shock had thrown Girdel some distance away. 
For a moment all were too frightened to stir, but soon spectators 
from all parts of the house came running up and loud cries were 
heard. 

Caillette had thrown herself sobbing at her father’s feet; Bobi- 
chel and Fanfaro busied themselves trving to raise the fallen 
man from the ground, and Rolla uttered loud, roaring cries 
which no doubt w ere intended to express her grief . Robeckal 
alone was not to be seen. 

“ Oh, Fanfaro, is he dead ?” sobbed Caillette. 

Fanfaro was silent and bent anxiously over Girdel; Rolla, on 
the other hand, looked angrily at the young man and hissed in 
his ear: 

Do not touch him. I will restore him myself.” 

Instead of giving the virago an answer, Fanfaro looked sha:^- 
ly at her. The wretched woman trembled and recoiled, while 
the young man putting his ear to Girdel’s breast, exclaimed: 

‘‘ Thank God, he lives!” 

Caillette uttered a low moan and became unconscious; two 
soft hands were laid tenderly on her shoulders, and when the 
tight-rope dancer opened her eyes, she looked in Irene’s face, 
who was bending anxiously over her. 

Girdel still remained motionless; the young countess handed 
Fanfaro an elegantly carved bottle filled with smelling-salts, but 
even this was of no avail. 

“ Wait, I know what will help him!” exclaimed Bobich el j sud^ 


24 THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 

denly, and hurrying out he returned with a bottle of strong 
brandy. 

With the point of a knife Fanfaro opened Girdel’s tightly com- 
pressed lips; the clown poured a few drops of the liquid down 
his throat, and in a few moments Girdel slowly opened his eyes 
and a deep sigh came from his breast. When Bobichel put the 
bottle to his mouth again, he drank a deep draught. 

“Hurrah, he is rescued!'’ exclaimed the clown, as he wiped 
the tears from his eyes. He then walked to Eolla and mock- 
ingly whispered: “ This time you reckoned without your host.” 

RoUa shuddered, and a look flew from^obichel to Fanfaro. 

Robeckal now thought it proper to appear and come from be- 
hind a post. He said in a whining voice: 

“Thank God, that our brave master lives. I dreaded the 
worst.” 

Schwan, who was crying like a child, threw a sharp look at 
Robeckal, and Fanfaro now said: 

“ Is there no physician in the neighborhood ?” 

“ No, there is no physician in Sainte-Ame, and Vagney is sev- 
eral miles distant.” 

“No matter, I shall go to Vagney.” 

“ Impossible, the floods have destroyed all the reads; you risk 
your life, Fanfaro,” said Schwan. 

“ And if that is so, I am only doing my duty,” replied the 
young man; “ I owe it to mj foster-father that I did not die of 
cold and starvation.” 

“ You are an honest fellow. Take one of my horses and ride 
around the hill. It is certainly an out-of-the-w^ay road, but it is 
safe. Do not spare the horse; it is old, but when driven hard it 
still does its duty.” 

“Monsieur Fanfaro,” said Irene, advancing, “take my riding 
horse; it flies like the wind, and will carry you to Vagney in a 
short time.” 

“She is foolish,” complained Madame Ursula, while Fanfaro 
accepted Irene’s offer without hesitating; “ the riding horse is an 
English thoroughbred, and cost two thousand francs.” 

No one paid any attention to her. Fanfaro swung himself 
into the saddle, and, throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he 
cordially said: 

“ Mademoiselle, I thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it; I am following your advice,” laughed 
Irene. 


CHAPTER VII. 

PIERRE LABAlRRE. 

The marquis and his steward had likewise hurried along the 
road to Vagney. They were often forced to halt to find the right 
direction, as the overflowing Cure had flooded the road at differ- 
ent points, but yet they reached the hill on which the city rests 
before night. 

“The danger is behind us now,” said Simon, 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 25 

A quarter of an hour later they stopped before a small solitary 
house. Simon shook the knocker, and then they both waited 
inmatiently to get in. 

For a short time all was still, and Simon was about to strike 
again, when a window was opened and a voice asked: 

.“Who is there?” 

The two men exchanged quick glances; Pierre Labarre was 
at home, and, as it seemed, alone. 

“I am the Marquis of Fougereuse,” said the marquis, finally. 

No sooner had the words bq^n spoken than the window was 
closed. The bolt of the house door was shoved back and a lean 
old man appeared on the threshold. 

Ten years had passed since Pierre Labarre rode alone through 
the Black Forest, and had saved himself from the bullet of the 
tjhen Vicomte de Talizac by his portfolio. Pierre’s hair had 
grown gray now, but his eyes looked as fearlessly on the world as 
if he had been thirty. 

“ Come in, vicomte,” said the old man, earnestly. 

The marquis and Simon followed Pierre into a small, plainly 
furnished room; the only decoration was a black piece of 
mourning almost covering one of the walls. While the old man 
turned up the small lamp high, Simon, without being noticed 
closed the door. Pierre pointed to a straw chair and t3almly 
said: 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte, will you please take a seat ?” 

The marquis angrily said : 

“Pierre Labarre, it surprises me that in the nine years which 
have passed since the death of my father, the Marquis of 
Fougereuse, you should have forgotten what a servant’s duties 
are! Since seven years I bear the title of my father; why do you 
persist in calling me Monsieur le Vicomte ?” 

Pierre Labarre stroked the white hair from his forehead with 
his long bony hand and slowly said: 

“ I only know one Marquis of Fougereuse.” 

“ And who should bear this title if not I ?” cried the marquis, 
angrily. 

“ The son of the man who was murdered at Leigoutte in the 
year 1805,’* replied Pierre. 

“Murdered?” exclaimed the marquis, mockingly; “that man 
fell fighting against the legitimate masters of the country.” 

“ Your brother. Monsieur le Vicomte was the victim of a well- 
laid plan; those persons who were interested in his death made 
their preparations with wonderful foresight.” 

The marquis frothed with anger, and it did not require very 
much more until he would have had the old man by the throat. 
He restrained himself though; what good would it do him if he 
strangled Pierre before he knew the secret ? 

“ Let us not discuss that matter,” he hastily said; “ other mat- 
ters have brought me here ” 

As Pierre remained silent, the marquis continued. 

“ I know perfectly well that that affair disturbed you. As the 
old servitor of my father you naturally were attached to the 
dead man. Yet, who could avert the catastrophe ? the father, 


26 


THE SON OF MONTE-CPJSTO. 


the mother and the two children were all slain at the same hour 
by the Cossacks, and ” 

“You are mistaken, vicomte,” interrupted Pierre, sharply; 
“ the father fell in a struggle with paid assassins, the mother 
was burned to death, but the children escaped.” 

“ You are fooling, old man,” exclaimed the marquis, growing 
pale; “ Jules’ two children are dead.” 

The old man crossed his arms over his breast, and, looking 
steadily at the marquis, he firmly said: 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte, the children live.” 

The marquis could no longer restrain himself. 

“ You know where they are ?” he excitedly exclaimed. 

“ No, vicomte, but it cheers me to hear from your words 
that you yourself do not believe the children are dead.” 

The marquis bit his lips. He had betrayed hijnself. Simon 
shrugged his shoulders and thought in his heart that the mar- 
quis was not the proper person to intrust with diplomatic mis- 
sions for the Society of Jesus. 

“ Monsieur le Marquis,” he hurriedly said, “ what is the use of 
these long discussions ? Put the question which concerns you 
most to the obstinate old man, and if he does not answer, I will 
make him speak.” 

“ You are right,” nodded the marquis; and turning to Pierre 
again he threateningly said: 

“ Listen, Pierre LabaiTe: I will tell you the object of my visit. 
It is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse.” 

A sarcastic laugh played about the old man’s lips, and half 
muttering to liimself, he repeated: 

“ The honor of the Fougereuse — I am really curious to know 
what I shall hear.” 

The marquis trembled, and casting a timid look at Simon, he 
said: 

“ Simon, leave us to ourselves.” 

“ What, Monsieur le Marquis?” asked Simon in amazement. 

“ You should leave us alone,” repeated the marquis, adding in 
a whisper: “ Go, I have my reasons.” 

“ But, Monsieur hi Marquis!” 

“ Do not say anything; go!” 

Simon went growlingly away, and opening the door he had so 
carefully locked, he strode into the hall, taking care, however, 
to overhear the conversation. 

As soon as the nobleman was alone with Pierre, his demeanor 
changed. He approached close to the old man, took his hand 
and cordially shook it. Pierre looked at the marquis in amaze- 
ment, and quickly withdrawing his hand, he dryly said: 

“ To business, vicomte.” 

“Pierre,” the marquis began, in a voice he tried to render as 
soft and moving as possible, “you were the confidant of my 
father, you knew all his secrets and were aware that he did not 
love me. Do not interrupt me — I know my conduct was not 
such as he had a right to expect from a son. Pierre, I was not 
wicked, I was weak and could not withstand any temptation, 
and my father had often cause to be dissatisfied vvdth me. Pierre, 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEiSTO, 


27 


what I am telling you no human ear has ever heard; I look upon 
you as my father confessor and implore you not to judge too 
harshly.” 

Pierre held his eyes down and even the marquis paused — he 
did not look up. 

“Pierre, have you no mercy?” exclaimed the nobleman, in a 
trembling voice. 

“ Speak further, my lord,” said Pierre, “ I am listeniog.” 

The marquis felt like stamping with his foot. He saw, how- 
ever, that he had to control himself. 

“If you let me implore hopelessly to-day, Pierre,” he whis- 
pered, gritting his teeth, “the name of Fougereuse will be 
eternally dishonored. 

“ The name of Fougereuse?” asked Pierre, with faint malice; 
“ thank God, my lord, that it is not in your j)ower to stain it; 
you are only the Vicomte of Talizac.” 

The marquis stamped his foot angrily when he heard the old 
man’s cutting words; it almost surpassed his strength to con- 
tinue the conversation to an end, and yet it must be if he wished 
to gain his point. 

“ I see I must explain myself more clearly,” he said after a 
pause. “ Pierre, I am standing on the brink of a precipice. My 
fortune and my influence are gone; neither my wife nor my 
son imagines how I am situated, but if help does not come 
soon ” 

“Well, what will happen ?” asked Pierre, indifferently. 

“ Then I will not be able to keep my coat of arms which dates 
from the Crusades, clean and spotless.” 

“ I do not understand you, vicomte; it is only a question of your 
fortune.” 

“ No, Pierre, it is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse. 
Oh, GodI You do not desire to understand me, you want me 
to disclose my shame. Listen then,” continued the marquis, 
placing his lips to the old man’s ears; “ to rescue me from going 
under, I committed an act of despair, and if assistance does not 
come to me, the name of the Fougereuse will be exposed to the 
world, with the brand of the forger upon it.” 

The old man’s face showed no traces of surprise. He kept 
silent for a moment, and then asked in cold tones: 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte, what do you wish of me?’*' 

“ I will tell you,” said the marquis, hastily, while a gleam of 
hope strayed over his pale face; “I know that my father, to have 
the major part of his fortune go to his eldest son, made a will 
and gave it to you ” 

“ Go on,” said Pierre, as the marquis paused. 

“ The will contains many clauses,” continued the nobleman, 
“ My father hid a portion of his wealth, and in his last will 
named the spot where it lies buried, providing that it should be 
given to his eldest son or his descendants! Pierre, Jules is dead, 
his children have disappeared, and therefore, nothing hinders 
you from giving up this wealth. It must be at least two 
millions. Can you hesitate to give me the money which will 
save the name of Fougereuse from shame and exposure ?” 


28 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


The marquis hesitated; Pierre rose slowly and turning to a 
side wall, he grasped the mourning cloth and shoved it aside. 

The nobleman wonderingly observed the old man, who now 
took a lamp and solemnly said: 

“ Vicomte, look here!” 

The marquis approached the wall and in the dim light of the 
lamp he saw a tavern sign, upon which a few letters could be 
seen. The sign had evidently been burned. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte, do you know what that is?” asked 
Pierre, threateningly. 

“ No,” replied the marquis. 

“Then I will tell you, vicomte,” replied Pierre. “The in- 
scription on this sign once read, ‘To the Welfare of France.’ 
Do you still wish me to give you the will and the fortune ?” 

“I do not understand you,” stammered the nobleman, in a 
trembling voice. 

“ Really, vicomte, you have a short memory, buf I, the old 
servant of your father, am able to refresh it! This sign hung 
over the door of the tavern at Leigoutte; your brother, the 
rightful heir of Fougereuse, was the landlord and the bravest 
man for miles around. In the year 1805 Jules Fougere, as he 
called himself, fell; the world said Cossacks had murdered him, 
I though, vicomte, I cry it aloud in your ear — his murderer was 
— you!” 

“ Silence, miserable lackey!” exclaimed the marquis, enraged, 
“ you he!” 

“No, Cain, the miserable lackey does not lie,” replied Pierre, 
calmly; “he even knows more! In the year 1807 the old mar- 
quis of Fougereuse died ; in his last hours his son, the Vicomte of 
Talizac, sneaked into his chamber of death and sinking on his 
knees beside the bedside of the dying man, he implored his 
father to make him his sole heir. The marquis hardly had 
strength enough to breathe, but his eyes looked threateningly 
at the scoundrel who dared to imbitter his last hours, and with 
his last gasp he hurled at the kneeling man these words: ‘ May 
you be eternally damned, miserable fratricide!* 

“ The vicomte, as if pursued by the furies, escaped; the dying 
man gave one more gasp and then passed away, and I, who was 
behind the curtains, a witness of this terrible scene— I shall so far 
forget myself as to deliver to the man who did not spare his 
father the inheritance of his brother? No, vicomte, Pierre La- 
barre knows his duty, and if to-morrow the name of the Fouge- 
reuse should be trampled in the dust and the present bearer of 
the name be placed in the pillory as a forger and swindler, then 
I will stand up and say: 

“ ‘ He is not a Fougereuse, he is only a Talizac. He murdered 
the heir and let no honest man ever touch his blood-stained 
hand!* Get out of here, Vicomte Talizac, my house has no room 
for murderers!” 

Pale as death, with quaking knees, the marquis leaned 
against the wall. When Pierre was silent he hissed in a low 
voice: 

“ Then you refuse to help me ?” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


29 


‘‘ Yes, a thousand times, yes.” 

“You persist in keeping the fortune of the Fougereuse for 
Jule’s son, who has been dead a long time.” 

“ I keep the fortune for the living.” 

“ And if he were dead, nevertheless?” 

Pierre suddenly looked up — suppose the murderer were to 
prove bis assertion ? 

“Would you, if Jules’ son were really dead, acknowledge me 
as the heir ?” 

“ I cannot tell.” 

“ For the last time, will you speak ?” 

“No; the will and fortune belong to the Marquis of Fouge- 
reuse, Jules’ son. 

“Enough; the will is here in your house; the rest will take 
care of itself.” 

Hereupon the marquis gave a penetrating whistle, and when 
Simon appeared, his master said 'to him: 

“ Take hold of this scoundrel!” 

“ Bravo! force is the only thing,” cried Simon, as he rushed 
upon the old man. But he had reckoned without his host; with 
a shove Pierre Labarre threw the audacious rascal to the ground, 
and the next minute the heavy old table lay between him and 
his enemies. Thereupon the old man took a pistol from the wall, 
and, cocking the trigger, he cried: 

“ Viconite Falizac, we still have an old score to settle! Years 
ago you attempted to kill me in the Black Forest; lake care you 
do not arouse my anger again.” 

The vicomte, who had no weapon, recoiled; Simon, however, 
seized a pocket-pistol from his breast, and mockingly replied: 

“ Oh, two can play at that game!” 

He preesed his hand to the trigger, but Pierre Labarre put his 
pistol down, and contemptuously said: 

“ Bah! for the lackey the dog will do— catch him, Sultan?” 

As he said these words he opened a side door; a large Vosges 
dog, whose glowing eyes and crispy hair made him look like a 
wolf, sprang upon Simon, and, clutching him by the throat, 
threw him to the ground. 

“ Help, my lord marquis,” cried the steward. 

“ Let go, Sultan,” commanded Pierre. 

The dog shook his opponent once more and then let him loose. 

“Get out of here, miscreants!” exclaimed Pierre now, with 
threatening voice, as he opened the door, “ and never dare to 
come into my house again.” 

The wretches ran as if pursued by the furies. Pierre caressed 
the dog and then laughed softly; he was rid of his guests. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A MEETING. 

Fanfaro had urged Irene’s horse on at great speed, and while 
it flew along like a bird, the most stormy feelings raged in his 
lieart. 

The gaze of the pretty girl haunted him; he heard her gently 


30 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


voice and tried in vain to shake off these thoughts. What was 
he, that he should indulge^n such wild fancies? A foundling, 
the adopted son of an acrobat, who had picked him up upon the 
way, and yet 

iSirther and further horse and rider flew; before Fanfare’s eyes 
stood Girdel’s pale, motionless face, and he thought he could 
hear Caillette’s bitter sobs. No, he must bring help or else go 
under, and ceaselessly, like lightning, he pushed on toward the 
city. 

The marquis and Simon ran breathlessly along. Their only 
thought was to get far from the neighborhood of the old man 
and his wolf-hound. Neither of the two spoke a word. The 
stormy, roaring Cure was forgotten, the danger to life was for- 
gotten; on, on they went, like deers pursued by a pack of blood- 
thirsty hounds, and neither of them paid any attention to tlie 
ominous noise of the overflowing mountain streams. 

Suddenly Simon paused and seized the marquis’ arm. 

“ Listen,” he whispered, tremblingly, “ what is that?” 

A thunderous noise, ceaseless, roiling, and crashing reached 
their ears from all sides; from all sides frothy, bubbling masses 
of water dashed themselves against the rocks, and now — now an 
immense rock fell crashing in the flood, which overflowed into 
the wide plain like a storm-whipped sea. 

Despair seized the men; before, behind, and around them, 
roared and foamed the turbulent waters; they turned to the 
right, where a huge rock, which still projected above the waves, 
assured them safety, but just then the marquis struck his foot 
against a stone — he tumbled and fell with a half -smothered cry 
for help, “ Help — I am sinking,” into the dark depths. 

Simon did not think of lending his master a helping hand; he 
sprang from rock to rock, from stone to stone, and soon reached 
a high point which protected him from' the oncoming waters. 

The marquis had been borne a short distance along by the rag- 
ing waters, until he succeeded in clambering on to a branch of an 
evergreen-tree. The flood still rolled along above his body, but 
with superhuman strength he managed to keep his head above 
water, and despairingly cry: “ Help, Simon! Rescue me!” 

Suddenly it seemed to the half-unconscious man as if he heard 
a human voice calling to him from above: 

“ Courage — keep up.” 

With the retnainder of his strength the marquis gazed in the 
direction from which it came, and recognized a human form 
which seemed to be hanging in the air. 

“ Attention, I will soon be with you,” cried the voice, now 
coming nearer. 

The marquis saw the form spring, climb, and then the water 
spurted up and the marquis lost consciousness. 

Fanfaro, for naturally he was the rescuer, who appeared at the 
hour of the greatest need, now stood up to his knees in water, 
and had just stretched his hand out toward the marquis, when 
the latter, with a groan, let go of the tree branch, and the next 
minute he was borne along by the turbulent waters. 

Fanfaro uttered a slight cry, but he did not hesitate a mcvr 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CRIST0. 


31 


• 

ment. Plunging into the seething waves, he parted them with 
muscular strokes, and succeeded in grasping the drowning man. 
Tlirowing his left arm about him, he swam to the rocky projec- 
tion upon which the evergreen- tree stood. Inch by inch he 
climbed toward the pathway >7hich was upon the top of the 
hill; the perspiration dripped from his forehead, and his wind 
threatened to give out, but Fanfaro went on, and finally stood 
on top! Letting the marquis softly to the ground, Fanfaro took 
out a small pocket-lantern which he always carried with him. 
With great trouble he lit the wet wick, and then let the rays fall 
full on the pale face of the motionless man. Seized by an inde- 
scribable emotion, the young man leaned over the marquis. Did 
he suspect that the man whom he had rescued from the stormy 
waters, at the risk of his life, was the brother of the man who 
had taken mercy on the helpless orphan, and was at the same 
time his father ? The marquis now opened his eyes, and heaving 
a deep sigh, he looked wildly around him. 

“ Where am I ?*’ he faintly stammered. “ The water — ah!” 

‘‘You are saved,” said Fanfaro, gently. 

The sound of the voice caused all the blood to rush to the 
3narquis’ heart. 

“ Did you save me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Who are you ?” 

“My name is Fanfaro, and I am a member of Gird el’s troupe, 
w"hi(;h is at present in Sainte-Ame. Can you raise yourself ?” 

With the young man’s assistance, the marquis raised himself 
up, but uttered a cry of pain when he put his feet on the ground. 

“ Are you wounded?” asked Fanfaro, anxiously. 

“No, I do not think so; the water knocked me against trees 
and stones, and my limbs hurt me from that.” 

‘* That will soon pass away; now put your arm about my neck 
and trust yourself to me, I will bring you to a place of safety.” 

The marquis put his arms tightly about the young man’s neck, 
and the latter strode along the narrow pathway which led to 
the heights. 

Soon the road became broader, the neighing of a horse was 
heard, and drawing a deep breath the young man stood still. 

“ Now we are safe,” he said, consolingly, “ I will take you on 
the back of my horse, and in less than a quarter of an hour we 
will be in Sainte-Ame. I rode from there to Vagney, to get a 
physician for my foster-father, Girdel, who injured himself, but 
unfortunately he was not at home, and so I had to return alone. 
Get up, the road is straight ahead, and the mountains now lie 
between us and the water.” 

In the meantime Fanfaro had helped the marquis on the back 
of the horse, and now he raised his lantern to untie the knot of 
the rope with which he had bound the animal to a tree. The 
light of the lamp fell full upon his face, and the marquis uttered 
a slight cry; his rescuer resembled in a startling way the old 
Marquis of Fougereuse. 

Had he Jules’ son before him? 

A Satanic idea flashed through the brain of the noble rogue, 


b2 THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 

aDd when Fanfaro, after putting out his lantern, attempted to 
get on the horse’s back, the marquis pressed heavily against the 
horse’s flank and they were both off like the wind in the direction 
of the vUlage. 

Fanfaro, who only thought that the horse had run away with 
the marquis, cried in vain to the rider, and so he had to foot the 
distance, muttering as he went: 

“If the poor fellow only doesn’t get hurt; he is still feeble, 
and the horse needs a competent rider,” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE GRATITUDE OF A NOBLEMAN. 

Fanfaro was hardly a hundred feet away from Sainte-Ame, 
when Girdel opened his eyes and looked about him. 

“ What, my little Caillette is weeping!’’ he muttered, half -laugh- 
ing. “ Child, you probably thought I was dead ?” 

“ Oh, God be praised and thanked!” cried Caillette, springing 
up and falling over her father’s neck. 

Bobichel almost sprung to the ceiling, and Schwan, between 
laughing and crying, exclaimed: 

“ What a fright you gave us, old boy. The poor fellow rode 
away in the night to get a physician, and ” 

“A physician? For me ?” laughed Girdel. “Thank God we 
are not so far gone.” 

“ But you were unconscious more than half an hour; we be- 
came frightened, and Fanfaro rode to Vagney.” 

“ He rode? On our old mare, perhaps? If he only returns,” 
said Girdel, anxiously; “the water must be dangerous about 
Vagney.” 

“Helms got a good horse; the Countess of Salves gave Fan- 
faro her thoroughbred,” said Bobichel. 

“ Ah! that is different. Now, (diildren, let me alone now. 
Cousin Schwan, send me the two men whom I am to bring toRe- 
miremont to-morrcw; I must speak to them.” 

Caillette, Bobichel, Schwan and Rolla went away; in the dark 
corridor a figure passed by Rolla, and a hoarse voice said: 

“Well?” 

“ All for nothing,” growled Rolla; “ he lives, and is as healthy 
as a fish in the water.” 

“You don’t say so,” hissed Robeckal. 

“It was your own fault,’ continued the virago. “A good 
stab in the right place, and all is over; but you h^-ye no cour- 
age.” 

“Silence, woman!” growled Robeckal. ‘^I haye attended to 
that in another way; he shall not trouble us long. Tell me, does 
he ever receive any letters ?” 

“A great pile,” said Rolla. 

“ And you cannot tell me their contents ?” 

“ No; I never read them.” 

This discretion had good grounds. Rolla could not read, but 
did not wish to admit it to him. AVhether Robeckal sus- 


THE SOir OF MONTE^CRISTO, BB 

pected how things were, we do not know; anyhow^ he did not 
pursue the subject any further, but said: 

“ Sell wan brought two men to Girdel a little while ago; come 
with me to the upper story; we can listen at the door there and 
find out what they say.” 

When Robeckal and Rolla^ after lisbming nearly two hours, 
slipped down-stairs they had heard all that Girdel and the two 
gentlemen had said. They knew Fanfaro had been deputed to 
take important papers to Paris and give them to a certain per- 
son who had been designated ; Girdel had guaranteed that Fan- 
faro would fill the mission promptly. 

When Robeckal returned to the inn, Simon rushed in pale and 
trembling. He could hardly reply to the landlord’s hurried 
questions; the words “in the water — the flood — dead— my poor 
master ” came from his trembling lips, and immediately" after- 
ward he sank to the floor unconscious. 

While Schwan was busy with him, the sound of a horse’s hoofs 
was heard. 

“ Thank God, here comes Fanfaro!” exclaimed Bobichel and 
Caillette, simultaneously; and they both rushed to the door. 

Who can describe their astonishment when they saw the 
marquis, dripping with water and half frozen, get down from 
the horse and enter the room. 

“ Where is Fanfaro?” asked Bobichel, anxiously. 

“He will soon be here,” replied the marquis; “ the horse ran 
away with me and I could not hold him.” 

“ Then the brave fellow is not injured ?” asked Schwan, viva- 
ciously. 

“God forbid; quick, give me a glass of brandy and lead me 
to Girdel, I must speak to him at once.” 

While the host went to get the brandy, Simon and the mar- 
quis exchanged looks; the next minute Schwan returned and the 
nobleman drank a large glass of bran^ at a gulp. 

“ Ah, that warms,” he said, smacking his lips, “ and now let 
us look for Girdel.” 

As soon as the marquis left the room, Robeckal drew near to 
the steward and whispered: 

“Follow me, I must speak to you.” 

They both went into the hall and held a conversation in low 
tones. 

Suddenly a cry of joy reached their ears, and the next minute 
they saw Bobichel, who, in his anxiety about Fanfaro, had hur- 
ried along the road, enter the house with the young man.” 

“ There he is,” whispered Robeckal, “God knows how it is, 
but neither fire nor water seems to have the slightest effect on 
him.” 

“ We will get rid of him, never fear,” said Simon, wickedly. 

From the upper story loud cries were heard. Rolla danced 
with a brandy bottle in her hand, and Girdel was asking him- 
self how he ever could have made such a low woman his wife. 

A knock was now heard on his door; Girdel cried, “ Come in,” 
in powerful tones, and a man, a stranger to him, crossed the 
threshold. 


B4 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO, 


“Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Girdel?” the 
stranger politely asked. 

“ At your service; that is my name.” 

“ I am the Marquis of Fougereuse, and would like to have an 
interview with you.” 

“ Take a seat, my lord marquis, and speak.” said Girdel, look- 
ing expectantly at his visitor. 

“I will not delay you long, Monsieur Girdel,” the marquis 
began; “ I know you have met with a misfortune ” 

“Oh, it was not serious,” said the athlete. 

“Monsieur Girdel,” continued the nobleman, “about one hour 
ago I was in peril of my life, and one of your men rescued me 
at the risk of his.” 

“ You don’t say so ? How did it happen ?” cried Girdel. 

“ I \v^as in danger of drowning in the Cure; a young man 
seized me from out of the turbulent waters and carried me in 
his arms to a place of safety.” 

“ Ah, I understand, the young man of whom you spoke ” 

“Was your son Fanfarol” 

“I thought so,” said the athlete; “if Fanfaro is alone only 
one second, he generally finds time to save somebody. Where 
is the boy now ?” 

“ He will be here soon. He asked me to get on the back of 
the horse with him. I got up first, and hardly had the fiery 
steed felt some one on his back than he flew like an arrow 
away. I was too feeble to check the horse, and so my rescuer 
was forced to follow on foot.” 

“ Fanfaro don’t care for that, he walks miles at a time with- 
out getting tired, and in less than fifteen minutes he will be 
here.” 

“ Then it is the right time for me to ask you a few questions 
which I do not wish him to hear. You are probably aware 
what my position at court is ?” 

“ Candidly, no; the atmosphere of court has never agreed 
with me.” 

“Then let me tell you that my position is a very influential 
one, and consequently it would be easy for me to do something 
for you and your — son.” 

The marquis pronounced the word “ son” in a peculiar way, 
but Girdel shook his head. 

“I wish Fanfaro was my son,” he sighed; “I know of no 
better luck.” 

“If the young man is not your son,” said the marquis, “then 
he would need my assistance the more. His parents are, per- 
haps, poor people, and my fortune ” 

“ Fanfaro has no parents any more, my lord marquis.” 

“Poor young man!” said the nobleman, pityingly; “ but what 
am I saying,” he interrupted himself with well-played anger. 
“ Fanfaro has no doubt found a second father in you; I would 
like to wager that you were a friend of his parents, and have 
bestowed your friendship upon the son,” 

“You are mistaken, my lord; I found Fanfaro on the road.” 


THE SON OF MONTE^CRISTO. m 

“ ImpossibJe! What singular things one hears! Where did 
you find the boy ?” 

“All! that is an old story, but if it interests you I will relate 
it to you: One cold winter day, I rode with ray wagon — in 
which was, besides my stock, my family and some members of 
my troupe — over a snow-covered plain in the Vosges, when I 
suddenly heard loud trumpet tones. At first I did not pay any 
attention to them. It was in the year 1814, and such things 
were not uncommon then. However, the tones were rep<?ated, 
and I hurried in the direction from whence thc^y proceeded. I 
shall never forget the sight which met me. A boy about ten 
years of age lay unconscious over a dead trumpeter, and his 
small hands were nervously clutched about the trumpet. It was 
plain that he had blown the notes I had heard and then fallen 
to the ground in a faint. I took the poor little fellow in my 
arms; all around lay the bodies of many French soldiers, and 
the terrors of the neighborhood had no doubt been too much for 
the little rogue. We covered him in the wagon with warm 
cloaks, and while the poor fellow blew such fanfares upon the 
trumpet, we had called him Fanfaro.” 

“ Didn’t he have any name ?” -asked the marquis, nervously. 

“ That, my dear sir, wasn’t so easy to find out. Hardly had 
we taken the boy to us, than he got the brain-fever, and for 
weeks lay on the brink of the grave. When he at length recov- 
ered, he had lost his memory entirely, and only after months did 
he regain it. At last he could remember the name of the village 
where he had formerly lived ” 

“ What was the name of this village ?” interrupted the marquis, 
hurriedly. 

“ Leigoutte, my lord.” 

The nobleman had almost uttered a cry, but he restrained him- 
self in time, and Girdel did not notice his guest’s terrible excite- 
ment. 

“ His name, too, and those of his parents and sister, we found 
out after a time,” continued Girdel; “ his father’s name was 
Jules, his mother’s Louise, his sister’s Louison, and his own 
Jacques. On the strength of his information I went to Lei- 
goutte, but found out very little. The village had been set on 
fire by the Cossacks and destroyed. Of the inhabitants only a 
few women and children had been rescued, and the only positive 
thing I heard was that Jacques’ mother had been burned to death 
in a neighboring farm-house. The men of Leigoutte had made a 
stand against the Cossacks, but had been blown into the air by 
them. I returned home dissatisfied. Fanfaro remained with us; 
he learned our tricks, and we love him very much. Where he 
managed to procure the knowledge he has is a riddle to me; he 
never went to a regular school, and yet he knows a great deal. 
He is a genius, my lord marquis, and a treasure for our truope.” 

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the nobleman’s forehead. 
No, there was no longer any doubt; Fanfaro was his brother’s 
son! 

“ Have you never been able to find out his family name?” 
be asked, after a pause. 


36 


THE SDK OF MONTE-GRISTO. 


“No; the Cossacks set fire to the City Hall at Weissenbach 
and all the records there were destroyed. An old shepherd said 
he had once been told that Jules was the scion of an old noble 
family. Anything positive on this point, I could not find 
out— I ” 

At this point the door was hastily opened and Fanfaro en- 
tered. He rushed upon Girdel and enthusiastically cried : 

“Thank God, papa Girdel, that you are well again.” 

“You rascal, you,” laughed Girdel, looking proudly at the 
young man. “You have found time again to rescue some 
one.” 

“ Monsieur Fanfaro,” said the marquis now, “permit me once 
more to thank you for what you have ione for me. I can never 
repay you.” 

“Don’t mention it, sir,” replied Fanfaro, modestly, “I have 
only done my duty.” 

“Well I hope if you should ever need me you will let me 
know. The Marquis of Fougereuse is grateful.” 

When the marquis went down-stairs shortly afterward, he 
found Simon awaiting him. 

“Simon,” he said, hurriedly, “do you know who Fanfaro 
is?” 

“ No, my lord.” 

“ He is the son of my brother, Jules de Fougereuse.” 

“Really?” exclaimed Simon, joyfully, “that would be splen- 
did.” 

“ Listen to my plan; the young man must die, but under such 
circumstances as to have his identity proved, so that Pierre 
LabaiTe can be forced to break his silence. You understand 
me, Simon ?” 

“ Perfectly so, my lord; and I can tell you now that I already 
know the means and way to do the job. A little while ago a 
man whom I can trust, informed me that Fanfaro is going to 
play a part in the conspiracy against the government of which 
I have already spoken to you about.” 

“ So much the better; but can he be captured in such a way 
that there will be no outlet for him ?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Who gave you this information?” asked the marquis, after 
Simon had told him all rhat Robeckal had overheard. 

“ A man called Robeckal; he is a member of Girdel's troupe.” 

“Good.” 

The marquis took out a note book, wrote a few lines and then 
said: 

“ Here, take this note, Simon, and accompany Robeckal at 
once to Remiremont. There, you will go to the Count of Vernac, 
the police superintendent, and give him the note. The count is 
a faithful supporter of the monarchy, and will no doubt accede to 
my request to send some policemen here this very night to arrest 
Girdel and Fanfaro. The rest I shall see to.” 

“ My lord, I congratulate you,” said Simon, respectfully. 


THE SON OF MONTE-’CEISrO, 


37 


CHAPTER X. 

ESCAPED. 

Before Robeckal had gone with Simon, he had hurried to 
Ro]la and told her that he was going to Remiremont now to get 
some policemen. 

“ Our score will be settled now on one board,” he said, with a 
wink. 

The fat woman had looked at him with swimming eyes, and in 
a maudlin voice replied : i 

“ That— is — right— all — must — suffer — Caillette— also!” 

“ Certainly, Caillette, too,” replied Robeckal, inwardly vowing 
to follow his own ideas with respect to this last, and then he 
hurried after the steward. 

Caillette and Rolla slept in the same room; when the young 
girl entered it she saw the Cannon Queen sitting in an intoxi- 
cated condition at the table surrounded by empty bottles. The 
horrible woman greeted the young girl with a coarse laugh, and 
as Caillette paid no attention to her, Rolla placed her arms upon 
the table, and threateningly exclaimed: 

“ Don’t put on such airs, you tight-rope princess; what will 
you do V hen they take your Fanfaro away?” 

“ Take Fanfaro away? What do you mean?” asked Caillette, 
frightened, overcoming her repulsion, and looking at Rolla. 

“ Ha! ha! ha! Now the pigeon thaws — yes, there is nothing 
like love,” mocked the drunken woman. Ah, the policemen 
won’t let themselves be waited for; Robeckal and the others will 
look out for that.” 

Caillette, horror-stricken, listened to the virago’s words; ^v^as 
she right and were her father and Fanfaro in danger? 

I am going to sleep now,” said Rolla, “ and when I wake up 
Fanfaro and Girdel will have been taken care of.” 

Leaning back heavily in the chair, the woman closed her eyes. 
Caillette waited until loud snoring told her Rolla was fast asleep, 
and then she silently slipped out of the room, locked it from the 
outside, and tremblingly hurried to wake her father. 

As she reached Girdel’s door, a dark form, which had been 
crouching near the threshold, arose. 

“ Who’s there?” asked Caillette softly. 

‘‘I, little Caillette,” replied Bobichel’s voice. “I am watching, 
because I do not trust Robeckal.” 

“ Oh, Bobichel, there is danger; I must waken father at once.” 

“ What is the matter ?” 

Go, wake father and tell him I must speak to him; do not 
lose a minute,” urged Caillette. 

The clown did not ask any more questions. He hurried to 
wake Girdell and Fanfaro, and then called Caillette. The young 
girl hastily told what she had heard. At first Girdel shook his 
head doubtingly, but he soon became pensive, and when Caillette 
finally said Rolla even muttered in her sleep about an important 
conspiracy and papers, he could no longer doubt. 

What shall we do?” he asked, turning to Fanfaro. 

‘‘ Fly,” said the young man quickly, We owe our lives and 


38 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISrO. 


our strength to the fatherland and the good cause; to stay here 
would be to put them both rashly at stake. Let us pray to God 
that it even now may not be too late.” 

“So be it, let us fly. We can leave the wagon go, and only 
take the horses. Is Robeckal at home?” asked Girdel, suddenly 
turning to Bobichel. 

“ No, master, he has gone.” 

‘ ‘ Then forward,” said the athlete firmly. ‘ ‘ I will take Caillette 
on my horse and you two, Fanfaro and Bobichel, mount the 
second animal.” 

“ No, master, that won’t do,” remarked the clown, “you alone 
are almost too heavy for a horse; Fanfaro must take Caillette 
upon his and I shall go on foot. Do not say otherwise. * My 
limbs can stand a great deal, and I won’t lose sight of you. 
Where are we going 

“We must reach Paris as soon as possible,” said Fanfaro. 
“ Shall we wake the landlord?” 

“ Not for any money,” said Girdel; “ we would only bring him 
into trouble.” 

“ You are right,” replied Fanfaro; “ we must not open the house- 
door either; we must go by way of the window.” 

“ That won’t be very difficult for such veterans as we are,” 
laughed Girdel. “ Bobichel, get down at once and saddle the 
horses. You will find the saddles in the large box in the wagon. 
But one minute, what will become of my wife ?” 

The others remained silent, only Fanfaro said: 

“ Her present condition is such that we cannot take her along; 
and, besides, there is no danger in store for her.” 

Girdel scratched his head m embarrassment. 

“ I will look after her,” he finally said, and hurried out. 

In about two minutes he returned. 

“ She is sleeping like a log,” he said; “ we must leave her here. 
Schwan will take care of her.” 

In the meantime Bobichel had tied the bed-clothes, opened the 
window and fastened the clothes to the window hinges. He 
then whispered jovially; “ Good -evening, ladies and gentlemen,” 
and let himself slide down the improvised rope. Caillette fol- 
lowed the clown, then came Girdel and finally Fanfaro. 

“ Let the clothes hang,” ordered Girdel, 

They all crept softly to the stable and in about five minutes 
were on the street. 

Bobichel ran next to Girdel; suddenly he stopped and hurriedly 
said: 

“ I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs; we escaped just in time.” 

The noise Bobichel heard really came from the policemen, who 
had hurried from Remiremont to Sainte-Ame and were now’ sur- 
rounding the Golden Sun. Bobeckal and Simon w^ere smart 
enough to keep in the background. The brigadier, a veteran 
soldier, knocked loudly at the house door, and soon the host ap- 
peared and asked what was the matter. 

“ Open in the name of the king,” cried the brigadier impa,- 
tiently. 


THE SON OF 3I0NTHCEIST0. 89 

‘‘Policemen, oh my God!’’ groaned Schwan, more dead than 
alive. “ There must be a mistake here.” 

“ Haven’t arrested any ontj yet who didn’t say the same thing,” 
growled the brigadier. “ Quick, open the door and deliver up the 
malefactors.” 

“Who shall I deliver?” asked Schwan, terror -strfcken. 

“Two acrobats, named Girdel and FaMaro,” was the answet* 

“ Girdel and Fanfaro? Oh, Mr. Brigadier, you are mistaken* 
What are they accused of ?” 

“ Treason! They are members of a secret organization, which 
is directed against the monarchy.” 

“Impossible; it cannot be!” groaned Schwan.* 

“ I will conduct the gentlemen,” said Robeckal, coming for- 
ward. 

“Scoundrel!” muttered the host, while Robeckal preceded the 
policemen up the stairs and pointed to Gird el’s room. 

“Open!” cried the brigadier, knocking at the door with the 
hilt of his sword. 

As no answer came, he burst open the door, and then uttered 
an oath. 

“Confound them — they have fled!” exclaimed Robeckal. 

“Yes, the nest is empty,” said the brigadier; “ look, there at 
the window, the bed-sheets are still hanging, with which they 
made their escape.” 

“You are right,” growled Robeckal; “but they cannot be 
very far off yet.” 

“No— quick to horse!” cried the brigadier, to his men, and 
while they got into the saddle, Robeckal looked in the stables and 
discovered the loss of the two horses. The tracks were soon found, 
and the pursuers, with Robeckal at the head, quickly gained 
the forest. But here something singular happened. The briga- 
dier’s horse stumbled and fell, the horse of the second police- 
man met with the same accident, and before the end of two 
seconds tw o more horses^ together with their riders, lay on the 
ground. All four raged and cried in a horrible manner; one of 
them had broken a leg, the brigadier’s sword had run into his 
left side, and two horses were so badly hurt that they had to be 
killed on the spot. 

“The devil take them!” cried Robeckal, w^ho was looking 
about with his lantern to discover the cause of these accidents, 
“ the scoundrels have drawn a net of thin cords from one tree to 
the other.” 

“ Yes, the scoundrels happened to be smarter than other peo- 
ple,” came a mocking voice from the branch of an oak-tree, and 
looking up, Robeckal saw the clown, who, with the quickness 
of an ape, had now slid down the tree and disappeared in the 
bush. 

“Villain!” exclaimed Robeckal, angrily, and taking a gun 
from one of the policemen, he fired a shot at Bobichel. 

Bid the shot take effect ? 


40 


THE SON OE MONTE-CBISTO. 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN PARIS. 

On the 29th of February, 1824, a great crowd of laughing 
noisy people wandered up and down the streets of the French 
capital, for it was the last Sunday of the carnival ; the boulevards 
in the neighborhood of the Palais-Royal especially being packed 
with promenaders of both sexes. 

An elegant carriage drawn by two thoroughbreds halted at the 
edge of the pavement, and three young men got out. They had 
cigars in their-mouths, which at that time was something ex- 
traordinary; white satin masks hid their faces, and dark (So-called) 
Venetian mantles, with many colored bands on their shoulders, 
covered their forms. 

The young men answered the jokes and guys of the crowd in 
a jolly manner, and then took seats in the Cafe de la Rotonde. 
Darkness came on, the lights gleamed, and one of the young 
men said, soiTOwfully: 

“ The carnival is coming to an eud; it’s a great pity— we had 
such fun.” 

“ Fernando, are you getting melancholy?” laughed the second 
young man. 

Fernando is right,” remarked the third; ‘‘ the last day of the 
carnival is so dull and spiritless that one can plainly see it 
is nearing the end. For more than two hours we have 
been strolling about the boulevards, but have not met with 
one adventure. Everywhere the stereotyped faces and masks; 
the same jokes as last year; even the coffee and the cake 
look stale to me. Arthur, don’t you agree with me?” 

‘*You demand too much,” cried Arthur, indifferently; ‘‘we 
still have the night before us, and it would not be good if we 
could not find something to make the hours fiy. As a last re- 
sort we could get up a scandal.” 

“ Hush! that smells of treason. The dear mob nowadays is not 
so easy to lead,* and the police might take a hand in the fight,” 
warned Fernando. 

“So much the better; the scandal would be complete then. 
The police are naturally on our side, and our motto — ‘after us 
the deluge’ — has always brought us luck.” 

The young men laughed loudly. They were evidently in good 
humor. The one whom his companions called Arthur was the 
son of the Count of Montf errand, who made a name for himself 
in the House of Lords on account of his great speech in favor of 
the murderers of Marshal Prune; the second, Gaston de Ferrette, 
was related to the first families of the kingdom; be had accom- 
panied the Duke of Angouleme to Spain, and was known as an 
expert fencer. He was hardly twenty years of age, but had 
already come out victorious in several duels. 

The third young man was a foreigner, but having the very 
best recommendations, he was soon at hon)e in the capital. His 
name was Fernando de Velletri, and he was by birth an Italian 
of the old nobility; he was received in all the palaces of the Fau- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 41 


qourg St. Germain, and was acquainted with everything that 
went on in the great world. 

“ Where is Frederic?” asked Arthur now. 

‘‘Really, he seems to have forgotten us,” replied Fernando. 
“ I cannot understand what delays him so long.” 

“Stop!” exclaimed Gaston de Ferrette. “ Come to think of 
it, I understand that he was going to accompany the Countess 
of Salves to some ceremony at Notre-Dame.” 

“ Poor fellow!” 

“ He is not to be pitied. The Countess of Salves is a charming » 
girl.” 


“ Bah, she is going to become his wife.” 

‘ ‘ So much the more reason that he should love her before the 
marriage; afterward, it isn’t considered good form to have such 
feelings.” 

“ He loves her, then ?” 

“I am very grateful to you, gentlemen; even in my absence 
you occupy yourselves with my affairs,” said a clear, sharp 
voice now. 

“ Frederic, at last; where have you been ?” 

“ Oh, I have been standing over five minutes behind you, and 
heard your conversation.” 

“ Has it insulted you ?” asked Gaston, laughing. 

Frederic did not answer immediately; he let his gaze fall 
pityingly over his companions, and Gaston hastily said; 

“ Really, Frederic, your splendor throws us in the shade; look 
at him, he has no mask, and is dressed after the latest fashion.” 

The costume of the last comer was, indeed, much more ele- 
gant than those of the other young men. A long overcoat, 
made of fine brown cloth, sat tightly about the body and 
reached to the knees; the sleeves, wide at the shoulder, nar- 
rowed down toward the wrists, and formed cuffs, which fell 
over the gloved hand. A white satin handkerchief peeped out 
coquettishly from tholeft breast pocket. White trousers, of the 
finest cloth, reached to the soles of his shoes, which were pointed 
and spurred. A tall, silk hat, with an almost invisible brim, 
covered his head. 

Frederic allowed himself to be admired by his friends, and 
then said: 

“ Take my advice and put off your masks at once, and dress 
yourselves as becomes young noblemen; let the mob run around 
with masks on.” 

“ Frederic is right,” said Gaston, “ let us huny to do so.” 

“ I shall await you here and bring you then to Robert; or 
better still, you can meet me at the Cafe Valois.” 

The three masks left, and the Vicomte Talizac, for he was the 
last comer, remained alone. 

His external appearance was very unsympathetic. The 
sharply-cut face had a disagreeable expression, the squinting 
eyes and rolling look were likewise repulsive, and if his back 
was not as much bent as usual, it was due to the art of Bernard, 
the tailor of the dandies. 

The Cafe de Valois, toward which the vicomte was no^v going, 


42 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


was generally the meeting-place of old soldiers, and the dandies 
called it mockingly the cafe of the grayheads. Rumor had it 
that it was really the meeting-place of republicans, and it was a 
matter of surprise why Delevan, the head of the police depart- 
ment, never took any notice of these rumors. 

* When the vicomte entered the gallery of the cafe, he looked 
observingly about him, and then approached a group of young 
men who all wore plain black clothing and whose manners were 
somewhat military. 

The young meri moved backward at both sides when the vi- 
comte approached them. Not one of them gazed at the dandy. 
The latter, however, stepped up to one of them, and laying his 
hand lightly upon his shoulder, said: 

“ Sir, can I see you for a moment?” 

The person addressed, a man about twenty-five years of age 
with classically formed features, turned hurriedly around; seeing 
the vicomte, he said in a cold voice: 

“ I am at your service, sir.” 

The vicomte walked toward the street and the man followed. 
On a deserted corner they both stopped.and the vicomte began: 

‘‘ Monsieur, first I must ask you to tell me your name; I am 
the Vicomte de Talizac.” 

“ I know it,” replied the young man coldly. 

“ So much the better; as soon as I know who you are I will be 
able to tell whether I should speak to you as an equal or punish 
you as a lackey.” 

The young man grew pale, but he replied with indomitable 
courage: 

“ I don’t know what we two could ever have in common.” 

Sir!” exclaimed Talizac angrily, “ in a month I shall lead the 
Countess de Salves to the altar; therefore it will not surprise you 
if I stigmatize your conduct as outrageous. You rode to-day at 
noon past the De Salve palace, and threw a bouquet over the 
wall and into the garden.” 

“ Well, what else?” 

“ You have probably good reasons not to give your name, the 
name of an adventurer, but in spite Of all I must inform you that 
in case you repeat the scene, I shall be obliged to punish you. 

The vicomte was unable to proceed; the iron fist of the young 
man was laid upon his shoulder, and sopowerful was the pressure 
of his hand that the vicomte was hardly able to keep himself on 
his feet. The young man gave a whistle, upon which signal the 
friends who had followed him hurried up; when they were near 
by, Talizac’s opponent said: 

“ Vicomte, before I provoke a scene, I wish to lay the matter be- 
fore my friends; have patience for a moment. Gentlemen,” he 
said, turning to his companions, “this man insulted me, shall I 
fight a duel with him. It is the Vicomte de Talizac.” 

“ The Vicomte de Talizac ?” replied one of the men addressed, 
who wore the cross of the Legion of Honor, “ with a Talizac one 
does not fight duels.” 

The YicqTp^e tittered a cr^ of rage, and turped under the 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


43 


iron fisfc which was still pressed on his shoulder and held him 
tight; the young man gave him a look which made his cowardly 
heart quake, and earnestly said: 

“Vicomte, we only fight with people we honor. If you do 
not understand my words, ask your father the meaning of them; 
he can give you the necessary explanations. Perhaps a day 
may come when I myself may not refuse to oppose you, and 
then you may kill me if you are able to do so! I have told you 
now what you ought to know, and now go and look up your 
dissipated companions, and take your presence out of the society 
of respectable people.” 

Wild with rage, his features horribly distorted, unable to utter 
a word, the Vicomte de Talizac put his hand in his pocket, and 
threw a pack of cards at his opponent’s face. The young man 
was about to rush upon the nobleman, but one of his compan- 
ions seized his arm and whispered: 

“ Don’t be too hasty, you must not put your life and Jiberty at 
stake just now — you are not your own master;” saying which, 
he pointed to three masked faces wlio had just approached the 
group. 

The young man shook his head affirmatively, and Talizac took 
advantage of this to disappear. He had hardly gone a few steps, 
when an arm was thrown under his own and a laughing voice 
exc'laimed: 

“You are punctual, vicomte; your friends can vouch for 
that.” 

The vicomte kept silent, and Fernando, lowering his voice, con- 
tinued: 

“ What was the difficulty between you and the voung man? 
You wanted to kill him. Are you acquainted with him?” 

“ No, I hardly know him; you overheard us ?” 

“ Excuse me, my dear fellow; your opponent spoke so loudly, 
that we were not obliged to exert ourselves to hear his estimate 
of you. Anyhow I only heard the conclusion of the affair; you 
will no doubt take pleasure in relating the commencement 
to me!” 

The words, and the tone in which they had been said, wounded 
Talizac’s self-love, and he sharply replied: 

“ If it pleases me. Signor Velletri!” 

The Italian laughed, and then said, in an indifferent tone: 

“ My dear vicomte, in the position in which you find yourself, 
it would be madness for me to imagine that you intend to msult 
me and therefore I do not consider them spoken.” 

“ What do you mean, signor?” 

“ Oh, nothing, except that yesterday was the day of presenta- 
tion for a certain paper, which you, in a fit of abstraction, no 
doubt, signed with another name than you own!” 

The vicomte grew pale, and he mechanically clinched his fist. 

“How — do — you — know — this?” he finally stammered. 

The Italian drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and 
took a piece of stamped paper from it. 

“ Here is the corpus delicti ” he said laughing. 

But how did it get in your hands ?” 


44 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISrO. 


‘^Oh, in a very simple way, I bought and paid for it.” 

“ You, signor ? For what purpose ?” 

Could it not be for the purpose of doing you a service ?” 

The vicomte shrugged his shoulders; he had no faith in his 
fellow-men. 

You are right,” said Fernando; replying to the dumb protest. 
“I will be truthful to you. I would not want the Vicomte de 
Talizac to go under, because my fate is closely attached to his, 
and because the vicomte’s father, the Marquis de Fougereuse. 
has done great service for the cause I serve. Therefore if I 
earnestly ask you not to commit such follies any more, you will 
thank me for it and acknowledge that this small reciprocation is 
worth the favor I am showing you.” 

“Then you will return the paper to me?” cried the vicomte, 
stretching out his hand for it. 

“No, the paper does not belong to me.” 

“ But you just said ” 

“ That I bought it, certainly. I paid the price for it only be- 
cause I received the amount from several friends.” 

“ And these friends ” 

“ Are the defenders and supporters of the monarchy; they 
will not harm you.” 

Talizac became pensive. 

“Let us not speak about the matter,” continued Fernando; “ I 
only wished to show you that I have a right to ask your confi- 
dence, and I believe you will no longer look upon it as idle 
curiosity if I ask you what business you had with that man.” 

The Italian’s words confirmed to Talizac the opinion of the 
world that VeUetri was a tool of the Jesuits. However, he had 
done him a great service, and he no longer hesitated to inform 
Velletri of the occurrence. 

“ I accompanied the Countess de Salves and her daughter to 
a party at Tivoli,” he began, as he walked slowly along with his 
companion, “ and we were enjoying ourselves when suddenly 
loud cries were heard, and the crowd wildly rushed toward the 
exits. The platform where dancing was indulged in gave way, and 
the young countess, in affright, let go of my arm and ran into the 
middle of the crowd. I hurried after her, but could not catch 
up with her; she was now in the neighborhood of the scene of 
the accident, and, horror-stricken, I saw a huge plank which 
hung directly over her head get loose and tumble down. I cried 
aloud; the plank would crush her to death. At the right minute 
1 saw a man grasp the plank and hold it in the air. How he did 
it I have never been able to tell ; the plank weighed at least sev- 
eral hundred pounds, but he balanced it as if it had been a 
feather. The young countess had fainted away. When I finally 
reached her, the young man held her in his arms, and from the 
way in which she looked at him when she opened her eyes, I at 
once concluded that that wasn’t the first time she had seen 
him. The old countess thanked him with tears in her eyes; I 
asked him for his name, for I had to find out first if it were 
proper for me to speak with him. He gave me no answer, but 
disappeared in the crowds The only reward he took wae a rib- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


45 


bon which the lady wore on her bosom and which he captured* 
The ribbon had no intrinsic value, but yet I thought it my duty 
to inform Irene about it. Do you know what answer she gave 
me?” 

“ No,” replied Velletri, calmly. 

“ None at all. She turned her back to me.” 

“ Impossible,” observed the Italian, laughing; ‘‘ well, I suspect 
that the knight, without fear or reproach, followed up the 
thing ?” 

“ He did; he permits himself to ride past the Salves’ palace 
every day, throws flowers over the wall, and I really believe the 
young countess picks up the flowers and waits at the window 
until he appears. Should I stand this ?” 

“No,” replied Velletri, laughing; “ you must, under all cir- 
cumstances, get rid of this gallant. For your consolation, I can 
tell you it is not a difficult job.” 

“ Then you know the man ? I sent my servant after him, but 
could not find anything further than that he visits the Cafe 
Valois every day at this hour, and that is the reason I went there 
to-day.” 

“ Without having been able to accomplish your object. My 
dear vicomte, I place my experience at your service. The man 
is no rival, cannot be any; and if the young countess has built 
any air-castles in her romantic brain, I can give you the means 
to crumble them to pieces.” 

“ And the means ?” 

“ Simply tell her the name of her admirer.” 

“ Yes; but he didn’t mention his name to me.” 

“ That does not surprise me. He was formerly an acrobat, 
and his name is Fanfaro.’’ 

The vicomte laughed boisterously. Fanfaro, a former acrobat,^ 
ran after young, noble ladies — it was too comical! 

“ So that is why the young man did not wish to fight me,” he 
finally cried “ it doesn’t surprise me any more, and is cowardly 
too.” 

The ItaliaM, who had witnessed the scene in which Fanfaro 
had refused to cross weapons with a Talizac, laughed maliciously. 

“ The companions of the former acrobat are, no doubt, igno - 
rant of whom they are dealing with ?” asked Talizac. 

“ On the contrary, they know him well.” 

“ I don’t understand it! They speak to him, shake hands with 
him; it is extraordinary.” 

The vicomte’s stupidity excited the Italian’s pity, but he did 
not allow his feelings to be perceived, and said; 

“ I think we have discussed this Fanfaro long enough. Let us 
not forget that we are still in the Carnival, and that we must 
hurry if we still wish to seek some distraction; forget the fatal 
scene of a short while ago.” 

The vicomte had forgotten long ago that he and his father 
had been stigmatized as dishonorable rogues, and in great 
good humor he accompanied his companion toward the Rue 
Virienne. 


46 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


They had not gone far when the vicomte paused and nudged 
his friend. 

Leaning against the balustrade of a house, a young girl, 
wliose features were illuminated by the rays of a street lamp, 
sang in a clear voice to the accompaniment of a guitar. A large 
crowd of passers-by had assembled around the singer, who was 
a perfect vision of beauty. 

Chestnut brown hair framed a finely cut face, and deep black 
eyes looked innocently from underneath long eyelashes. The 
fingers which played on the instrument were long and taper- 
ing, and every movement of the body was the personification of 
grace. 

When the song was finished loud applause" was heard. The 
young songstress bowed at all sides, and a flush of pleasure lit 
up the charming face. Every one put a penny on the instru- 
ment. When the vicomte’s turn came, he threw forty francs on 
the guitar, and approached close to the songstress. 

“ You are alone to-day he boldly asked. 

The young girl trembled from head to foot and walked on. 
The vfcomte gazed after her, and the Italian laughingly ob- 
served : 

“ The ‘ Marquise ’ is very strict to-day.” 

Thereupon he bent down and picked something up from the 
ground. 

“ Here, vicomte, is your money; the little one threw it away.” 

The vicomte uttered a cry of rage. 

“The impertinent hussy!” he hissed. 

“ The affair has been ’ on in this way for the last two 



months,” said the Italian, dryly; “and you could have known 
long ago, vicomte, that the ‘Marquise’ spurns your attentions.” 

“Fernando, I really believe you play the spy upon me!” ex- 
claimed Talizac; “ have a care, my patience has its limits.” 

“ You are too tragical,” replied Velletri, shrugging his shoul- 
ders; “instead of pursuing the little one with platonic declara- 
tions, you ought to try to break her spirit.” 

“Velletri, you are right,” replied Talizac; ‘‘yes, I will re- 
venge myself upon Fanfaro and possess this girl. What am I 
peer of France for ?” 

“Bravo, vicomte, you please me now — let us go to dinner, 
and then ” 

“ But the ‘ marquise ’ ?” 

“ Have patience. You will be satisfied with me.” 


CHAPTER XH. 

THE “MARQUISE.” 


Mardi-Gras had come and folly reigned supreme at Paris. 
Opposite the Cafe Turque, which had already at that time a 
European reputation, stood a small poverty-stricken house. It 
was No. 48 Boulevard du Temple, and was inhabited by poor 
people. 

In a small but cleanly room on the fifth story, a young girl 
stood before a mirror arranging her toilet, The “Mar- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 47 

quise,” for it was she, looked curiously out of place in her hum- 
ble surroundings. 

A dark, tightly fitting dress showed her form to perfection, 
and the dark rose in her hair was no redder than the fresh lips 
of the young girl. Thg little singer gare a last glance in the 
mirror, smoothed back a rebellious curl, and seized her guitar 
to tune it. 

A low moan came from a neighboring room. The street-singer 
immediately opened the curtained door and slipped into the room, 
from which a cry now came. 

“ Louison — little Louison!” 

“The poor thing — she has woke up,” sighed the girl as she 
approached the small bed which stood in the equally small space. 

“ Mamma, how goes it ?” she asked. 

The form which lay on the bed looked almost inhuman. The 
cadaverous face was half burned and the bloodshot eyes, desti- 
tute of eyebrows, could not stand the least ray of light. The 
hands were horribly burned, and her laugh exposed her toothless 
gums. 

“Thirst, Louison,” stammered the woman, pulling her long 
gray hair over her eyes. 

“There, mamma, drink,” said Louison, bending tenderly over 
the poor woman. 

The woman drank eagerly the glass of milk offered, and then 
muttered softly to herself: 

“It is so warm, I am burning, everywhere there are fiames.” 

The poor woman was crazy, and no one would have ever rec- 
ognized in her, Louise, the wife of the landlord Jules Fougeres. 

The reader will have guessed long since that Louison, the 
street singer, was none other than Fanfare’s lost sister. The 
young girl, however, did not know that the poor woman she so 
tenderly nursed was her mother. 

Louison had once lost herself in the woods, and in her blind 
fear had run further and further until she finally reached an 
exit. As she stood in a field sobbing bitterly, a man approached 
her and asked her who she was and where she had come from. 
The child, exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, 
could not give a clear answer, and so the man took her on his 
arm and brought her to his wife, who was waiting for him in a 
thicket. The man and wife carried on a terrible trade; they 
hovered about battle-fields to seek prey, and more than one 
wounded man had been dispatched by them if his purse or his 
watch attracted the robbers’ attention. Nevertheless, these 
“ Hyenas of the battlefield ” were good and kind to the lost child; 
they treated her just like their own children, of whom they had 
three, and at the end of the war, in consequence of the good crop 
they had secured on the battlefield, they were possessed of suffi- 
cient competence to buy a little place in Normandy.” 

Louison grew up. An old musician who discovered that she 
had a magnificent voice, took pride in learning the child how to 
sing, and when on Sundays she would sing in the choir, he 
would enthusiastically exclaim, “ Little Louison will be a good 
songstress some day, her voice sounds far above the others.” 


48 


THE SON OF MONTF-CRISTO. 


An epidemic came to the village soon after, and at the end of 
two days her foster-parents were carried away, and Louison was 
once more alone in the world. 

The nuns of the neighboring convent took the child, taught it 
what they knew themselves, and a fe . 4 years passed peacefully 
for Louison. 

A thirst to see the world took liold of her; the convent walls 
stifled her, and she implored the nuns to let her wander again. 
Naturally her request was refused, and so Louison tried to help 
herself. 

One dark, stormy night she clambered over the garden wall, 
and when the nuns came to wake her next morning for early 
mass, they found her bed empty and the room vacant. 

Singing and begging, the child wandered through Normandy. 
In many farm-houses she was kept a week as a ^est, and one 
old woman even presented her with a guitar, which a stranger 
had left behind. 

The proverb all roads lead to Rome would be more true in 
many cases if it said they lead to Paris, and thus it was with 
Louison. After a long and difficult journey, she reached the 
capital, the eldorado of street singers from Savoy, and with 
the sanguine temperament of youth, the fifteen-year-old girl no 
longer doubted that she would support herself honestly. 

In a miserable quarter of the great city, in the midst of people 
as poor as herself, Louison found a habitation. The woodrous 
beauty of the girl soon attracted attention, and when she sang 
songs on some street-corner she never failed to reap a harvest. At 
the end of four weeks she had her special public, and could now 
carry out a proj*ect she had long carried in her head. She went 
to the inspector of the quarter and begged him to name her some 
poor, sickly old woman whom she could provide for. 

‘‘ I do not wish to be alone,” she said, as the inspector looked 
at her in amazement, “and it seems to me that my life would 
have an aim if I could care for some one.” 

Petitions of this kind are quickly disposed of, and on the next 
day Louison received an order to go to another house in the 
same quarter and visit an old mad woman whose face had been 
terribly disfigured by fire. 

Louison did- not hesitate a moment to take the woman, wbi>se 
appearance was so repulsive, to her home. When she asked the 
crazy woman, who gazed at her, “ Mother, do you wish to go 
with me V” the deserted woman nodded, and from that day on 
she was sheltered. 

Who could tell but that Louison’s voice recalled to that 
clouded memory the recollection of ha]>pier days ? Anyhow the 
maniac was tender and obedient to the young girl, and a daugh- 
ter could not have nursed and cared for the poor old woman 
better than Louison did. 

The sobriquet of the “Marquise” had been 'given to Louison 
by the people of the quarter. She was so . different from her 
companions; she looked refined and aristocratic, although her 
clothes were of the cheapest material, and no one would have 
dared to say an unkind or bold word to the young girl. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 49 

As the old woman handed the empty glass back to the girl, 
Louison cheerfully said; 

“ Mother, I must go out; promise me that you will be gv)od 
during my absence.” 

“Good,” repeated the maniac. 

“ Then you can put on your new cap to-morrow.” 

“ The one with the ribbons?” 

“ Yes.” ’ 

“ Oh, then I will be good.” 

The poor thing clapped her hands, but suddenly she uttered a 
cry of pain. 

“ Ah! — my head — it is burning!” 

Louison, with heavenly patience, caressed her gray hair and 
calmed her. 

“ Ah! where is the box ?” the maniac complained after awhile. 

“ To-morrow I will bring it to you,” said the songstress, who 
knew the whims of the sick woman. 

“ Do not forget it,” said the old woman; “ in that box is luck; 
oh, where did I put it?” 

She continued to mutter softly to herself. Louison allowed 
her to do so, and slipped into the other room. It was time for her 
to go about her business. This being Mardi-Gras, she expected 
to reap a rich harvest. As she was about to open the door she 
suddenly paused; she thought she heard a voice, and listened. 
A knock now sounded at the door, and Louison asked; 

“Who is there?” 

“ A friend,” came back in a loud voice. 

“Your name?” 

“ You do not know me.” 

“ Tell me your name.” 

“ Robeckal; please admit me.” 

The young girl did not open at once; an indefinable fear seiz- 
ed her. Suppose the vicomte, who had followed her aU over, 
had at last found out where she lived ? 

“ Well, are you going to open?” cried Robeckal, becoming im- 
patient. 

Hesitatingly Louison pushed the bolt back, and with a sigh of 
relief she saw Robeckal’s face; no, that was not the vicomte. 

“H’m, mademoiselle, you thought perhaps that I was a beg- 
gar ?” asked Robeckal, mockingly. 

“ Please tell me quickly what you want,” cried Louison, hur- 
riedly. “ I must go out, and have no time to lose.” 

“You might offer me a chair, any way,” growled Robeckal, 
looking steadily at the handsome girl. 

“ I told you before I am in a hurry,” replied Louison, coldly; 
“ therefore please do not delay me unnecessarily.” 

Robeckal saw that the best thing he could do would be to come 
to the point at once, and grinning maliciously, he said; 

“ Mademoiselle, would you like to earn some money ?” 

“ T h at depends — go on !” 

“ Let me first speak about myself. I am an extra waiter. Do 
you know what that is ?” 

Yes, you in saloons on Sundays and holidays.” 


50 


THE SON OF 3IONTE-CRISTO. 


“ Right. For the past three days I have been at The Golden 
Calf, just in the street above.” 

“ Ah, by Monsieur Aube?” .- 

“Yes. The landlord would like to treat his guests to-day to 
some special amusement, and so he said to me last night, 

‘ Robeckal, do you know of anything new and piquant !’ 

“ < The “ Marquise,” master,’ I replied. 

‘‘ ‘ But will she come ?’ 

“ ‘ H’m, we must ask her. How much do you intend to 
spend ?’ 

“ ‘ Twenty francs.’ 

“ ‘ Good,’ I said, ‘ I will ask her,’ and here I am.” 

Louison had allowed Robeckal to finish. The man displeased 
her, but his offer was worth considering. Twenty francs! For 
the young girl the sum was a small fortune, and her heart ceased 
to beat when she thought of the many' little comforts she could 
provide her protegee with it. 

“ Did not Monsieur Aube give you a letter for me?” she asked, 
still hesitating. 

“ No, mademoiselle. Do you mistrust me ?” 

“ I did not say that, but I cannot decide so hastily. I will be 
at the Golden Calf in a little while, and give the gentleman my 
answer.” 

“ Mademoiselle, tell me at once that you don’t care to go, and 
I will get the man without arms, who will do just as well. He 
won’t refuse, I warrant you.” 

With these words, Robeckal took out a card and pointed to 
two addresses thereon. The first was Louison’s address, the 
second that of a street-singer, who was well known to the young 
girl. Louison no longer doubted. 

I shall come,” she said firmly; “ when shall .1 make my 
pearance ?” 

“ At eight o’clock.” 

“ And when will I be done?” 

A peculiar smile, unnoticed by Louison, played about Robeck- 
al’s lips. 

“ I really do not know,” he finally replied, “ but it will be be- 
tween ten and eleven. With such good pay a minute more or 
less won’t make much difference.” 

No, but it must not be later than midnight.” 

“On no account, mademoiselle; if you are afraid, why, I will 
see you home,” Robeckal gallantly cried. 

“ Good — tell Monsieur Aube I shall be punctual.” 

“ Done. I suppose, mademoiselle, you will not forget to give 
me a portion of the twenty francs. I was the one, you know, 
who brought it about.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ Then good-bye until this evening.” 

Robeckal hurried down the five flights of stairs. In front of 
the house a man enveloped in a wide mantle walked up and 
down. 

When he saw Robeckal, he anxiously asked; 

“Well?” ? ^ 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


51 


It is settled.” 

“Really ? Will she come ?” 

“ CertaiDly.” 

The man in the cloak who was no other than Fernando de 
Velletri, let some gold pieces slip into Robeckal’s hands. 

“ If everything goes all right, you will get five hundred francs 
more,” he cried. 

“ It is as good as if I had the money already in my pocket. 
Besides, the racket is rather cheap, for the little one is a picture.” 

“ So much the better,” laughed the Italian. 

While the worthy pair wefe discussing their plans, Louison 
went as usual to the boulevards and sang her pretty songs. 

In the Golden Calf, Monsieur Aube’ restaurant, things were 
very lively. The guests fairly swarmed in. The landlord ran 
busily to and fro, now in the kitchen turning over the roast, 
then again giving orders to the waiters, pulling a table cloth 
here, uncorking a bottle there, and then again greeting njew 
guests. On days like this the place was too narrow, and it al- 
ways made Aube angry that he could not use the first story. 
The house belonged to an old man, who had until recently lived 
on the first floor, and since then new tenants had moved in, who 
were a thorn in the saloon-keeper’s side. He had tried his best 
to get rid of them, advanced the rent, implored, chicaned but 
all in vain. They stayed. 

If they had only been tenants one could be proud of, but so! 
The family consisted of an athlete who called himself Firejaws, 
his daughter Caillette a tight-rope dancer, a clown called Mario, 
and a young acrobat, Fanfaro. Every day the troupe performed 
on the Place du Chateau d’Eau, and, besides this, people visited 
the house under the pretense of taking lessons from Fanfaro in 
I)arlor magic. 

These visitors, strange to say, looked very respectable; the most 
of them appeared to be old soldiers. They certainly had no need 
to learn magic. 

The large hall was filled to the last seat, and the waiters ran 
here and there with dishes, when an elegant equipage drove up 
and immediately afterward the stentorian voice of the landlord 
cried: 

Jean, the gentlemen who have ordered room No. 11 have ar- 
rived. Conduct them up-stairs.” 

The gentlemen were the Vicomte de Talizac, Arthur de Mont- 
ferrand and Fernando de Velletri. Jean led them to the 
room and began to set the table. 

“ Tell me, Frederic,” began Arthur, as he threw himself lazily 
in a chair, “ how you got the idea to invite us to this hole for 
dinner ?” 

The waiter threw an angry look at Arthur, who had dared to 
call the Golden Calf a hole. 

“ My dear Arthur,” said the vicomte, coldly, “ have patience 
yet a while. It is not my fashion to speak about my affairs in 
the presence of servants.” 

Jean hastily drew back, and only the thought of losing his tip 
prevailed upon him to serve his customers. 


52 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CBIST0, 


“Now we are alone,” said Arthur, “ and we’ll finally find out 
all about it ” 

“I must beg your pardon once more,” interrupted the vi- 
comte, “ but before dessert I never bother about serious affairs.” 

“ Ah, it is serious then,” remarked Arthur. He knew that 
Talizac was often short and feared that he was about to ask for a 
loan. The youngs men dined with good appetite, and as the 
waiter placed the dessert upon the table, the ^dcomte threw a 
glass filled with red wine against the wall and exclaimed: 

“ Champagne, bring champagne!” 

“Well, I must say that you end the Carnival in a worthy 
way,” laughed Velletri. 

“ Bah, I must drown my troubles in champagne,” replied the 
vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. “ I tell you, my friends, I 
had a conversation with my father to* day, which made me 
wild.” 

“Ah, it was about your marriage, no doubt!’' said the 
Italian. 

“Yes. The marquis wants me to go to the altar in fourteen 
days — that would be a fine thing.” 

“ But I thought the marriage was a good one for both sides; 
the fortune of the Salves ” 

“ Oh, bother with the fortune!” interrupted the vicomte. 

“ And, besides, the young countess is very beautiful,” continu- 
ed Arthur. 

“Beautiful?” repeated the vicomte, mockingly, “ not that I 
can see. She puts on airs, as if the whole world lay at her feet, 
and poses as such a virtuous being. And yet I really believe she 
is no better than other people; I ” 

‘ Frederic,” interrupted Velletri, w'arningly; he feared that 
the vicomte would inform young Montferrand what had occur- 
red between his bride and the acrobats. 

“ Well,” said Arthur, hastily, “ I hope that when Irene de 
Salves becomes your bride you will be more pleasant to her.” 

“Really, Arthur, you have such antedeluvian notions,” laugh- 
ed the vicomte; “ formerly we said that marriage was the grave 
of love; but if there has been no love beforehand, it follows that 
the grave will remain empty. No, my friends, if I am bound 
by marriage ties, I authorize you both to hunt on my ground, 
and it will give me pleasure if you score a success. Who knows, 
the countess is, perhaps, less prudish than she seems.” 

“ Perhaps I shall make use of the permission,” laughed Ar- 
thur, carelessly. 

“ I wish you joy. I haven’t the stuff of a jealous husband in 
me, and the freedom I ask for myself I grant to others!” 

“ That is unselfish,” said the Italian; “ not every one is so lib- 
eral with his wife.” 

“ Bah the wife of a friend is decidedly more piquant than one’s 
own, and who knows but what I may revenge myself later on. 

At this moment a clear, fresh girlish voice was heard coming 
from down-stairs, and the first verse of a ballad by Romaguesi 
was deliciously phrased. The young men listeried attentively 


THE SON OF MONTE-CniSTO. 


53 


to the simple song, and when at the end of the same a storm of 
applause followed, Arthur clapped Ids hands too. 

“ What a pity,” he said, “ that one cannot hear this nightin- 
gale nearer.” 

“ Why should not that be possible?” cried the vicomte, spring- 
ing up as if electrified. 

Fernando grew frightened. This idea might disturb his plan. 

“ What is there in a street-singer?” he contemptuously asked, 

Talizac, however, who was under the influence of the cham- 
pagne he had drunk, did not understand the hint, and angrily 
exclaimed: 

“ Now she shall just come up-stairs; first she must sing to us, 
and then ” 

“ And then ?” repeated Arthur curiously. 

“ Ah, it is merely a little surprise we arranged for the little 
one,” observed Velletri, with a cynical laugh. 

What! a surprise?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And she does not suspect anything ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Well, I am curious to see the little one; let us call Aube, he 
can show his singer to us.” 

“Gentlemen, no folly,” warned Velletri, “we are not in the 
Palais Royal here, and in some things the mob does not see any 
fun.” 

“ I will attend to the people down-stairs,” said Arthur, while 
the vicomte rang loudly. 

When the waiter came he received the order to send the land- 
lord up, and in less than five minutes the latter came and bowed 
respectfully to the guests who had drank so much champagne. 

“ Monsieur Aube,” began the vicomte, “ who is the little bird 
that sings so beautifully down-stairs ?” 

“ A young, modest, and very respectable girl, gentlemen.” 

The young men burst into loud laughter. 

“ A saint, then ?” exclaimed Arthur. 

“ Really, gentlemen, she is very virtuous and respectable.” 

“ So much the better,” said the young men to Aube. “ We 
would like to take a good look at the little one; send her up to 
us so that she can sing a few songs for us, and at the same time 
put a few more bottles on the ice.” 

Monsieur Aube did not know what to do. 

“ What are you waiting for?” asked the vicomte, in a maudlin 
voice. 

“ Gentlemen, the little one is so pure,” said the landlord, 
earnestly. 

“ Are we going to ruin her?” exclaimed Talizac, with a laugh. 
“She shall sing, and we will pay her well for it. She shall get 
a hundred francs; is that enough?” 

The landlord considered. He knew Louison was poor, and he 
said to himself he had no right to prevent the pretty girl from 
earning so much money. Moreover, she was not called “The 
Marquise ” for nothing, and Velletri’s mien reassured the host 
and he came to the conclusion that there was no danger to be 


54 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


feared for hiB protegee. Even if the other two were drunk, the 
Italian was sober, and so the host finally said: 

‘‘ I will send the little one.’’ 

As the landlord entered the hall, Louison was just going 
about and collecting. The crop was a rich one, and with spark- 
ling eyes the songstress returned to her place, to give a few more 
songs* when Aube drew her in a corner. 

“Louison,” he softly said, “I have got a good business to 
propose to you.” 

“ What is it, Father Aube ?” 

The landlord, somewhat embarrassed, stammeringly answered: 

“ If you desiie you can make one hundred francs in fifteen 
minutes.” 

“ So much ? You are joking ?” 

“Not at all, you sing two or three songs and the money is 
earned.” 

“ Where shall I sing ?” 

“ Here in my house, on the first story.” 

At this minute the hall-door opened and loud laughter 
came from above. Louison looked anxiously at the host and 
asked: 

“ Who wants to hear me?” 

“Some guests, Louison, high-toned guests.” 

“Are they ladies and gentlemen, or only gentlemen ?” 

“ Gentlemen, jolly young gentlemen.” 

“ And if I go up will you stay in the neighborhood ?” 

“ Certainly; this house is my house, and you are under my pro- 
tection.” 

Louison considered. One hundred francs was a treasure with 
which she could do wonders. A comfortable chair could be 
bought for the invalid, wine and other strengthening things kept 
in the house, and 

“ I agree,” she said, picking up her guitar; “ when shall I go 
up ?” 

“ Directly, Louison, I will accompany you.” 

“ H’m, what does that mean?” exclaimed a solid-looking 
citizen as he saw Louison go up the stairs; “ is the performance 
over ?” 

“No,” said Aube to his guests,” Louison will sing more later 
on. Have a little patience.” 

“When the landlord and the young girl entered the room of 
the young men, Aube was agreeably sui*prised at seeing that the 
vicomte had disappeared. He wa ? perfectly calm now. It had 
been the vicomte of whom Aube had been afraid, and with a 
light heart he left the apartment. 

‘ Marquise,’ will you be so kind as to sing us a song ?” asked 
Arthur, politely. 

Louison’s modesty began to have a good infiuence on him, and 
he already regretted having assisted Talizac in his plan. 

Louison tuned her instrument and then began to sing a pretty 
little air. Montf errand and Velletri listened attentively, and 
when she had ended they both asked her in the most polite way 
imaginable to sing another song. Louison did not wait to be 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


55 


coaxed; she began a simple ballad and sang it with melting 
sweetness. Suddenly she uttered a loud scream and let her gui- 
tar fall. Frederic de Talizac stood before her. 

“Continue your song, my pretty child,” giggled the vicomte, 
“ I hope I have not frightened you ?” 

As he said this he tried to put his arm around Louison’s waist. 

She recoiled as if stung by a rattlesnake. 

“ I will not sing any more,” she said firmly, “ let me go.” 

“ Nonsense, my little pigeon, you remain here,” said the vi- 
comte huskily, placing himself in front of the door, “and for 
each note you sing I will give you a kiss.” 

The poor child was paralyzed with fear. She threw an ago- 
nizing look upon the drunken man’s companions, and when she 
saw them both sit there so calm and indifferent, her eyes spark- 
led with anger. 

“ Miserable cowards!” she contemptuously exclaimed. “ Will 
you permit a drunken scoundrel to insult a defenseless girl ?” 

Arthur sprang up. A flash of shame was on his classically 
formed features, and turning to Talizac, he hastily said: 

“ She is right, vicomte; are you not ashamed?” 

“ Are you speakings to me ?” laughed Talizac, mockingly. ‘ ‘ I 
really believe you wish to be the Don Quixote of this virtuous 
Dulcinea del Toboso! No, my friend, we did not bet that way; 
the girl must be mine, and I should like to see the man who will 
oppose me.” 

He grasped Louison’s arm; the young girl cried aloud for help, 
and the next minute the vicomte tumbled back struck by a 
powerful blow of the fist. Mon tf errand had come to the street- 
singer’s rescue. 

The vicomte roared like a wild bull, and seizing a knife frona 
the table, rushed upon Arthur. The two men struggled with 
one another. The table fell over; and while Louison unsuccess- 
fully tried to separate the combatants, Velletri looked coolly at 
the fray. 

“ Help! murder!” cried Louison in desperation. She did not 
think of escape. She hoped Aube would make his appearance. 

The landlord had really hastened up at the first cry, but at the 
head of the stairs Robeckal had held him tight, and uttered a 
peculiar whistle. Two powerful men came in answer to the sig- 
nal, and seizing the host in their arms, they bore him to a small 
room where the brooms were kept. Aube imagined his house 
had been entered by burglars. He threw himself with all his 
force against the door, he cried for lielp, and soon a few guests 
who had been sitting in the restaurant came to his assistance 
and rescued him. 

“ Follow me, gentlemen,” cried the landlord, angrily. “ It is a 
dastardly conspiracy! Up-stairs there they are driving a poor, 
innocent girl to despair. Help me to rescue her. It’s the 
‘ Marquise.’ Oh, heavens! her cries have ceased, she must be 
dead!” 

Twenty men, in company with the landlord, rushed into the 
young men’s rooms. Louison was no longer there, and in the 
center Montferraud and the vicomte were still fighting with one 


56 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


another. Montferrand had already taken the knife away from 
the drunken man, when the vicomte angrily rushed at Arthur 
and hit liim in the neck. A stream blood gushed from the 
wound, and with a low moan the wounded man sank to the 
ground. 

Before he could rise to his feet again, Velletri had seized the 
vicomte by the arm, and in spite of his resistance, dragged him 
down the stairs. When Aube looked around for them, they had 
already left and not a trace of Louison could be found. 

“Merciful God!” he despairingly cried, “where is the poor 
child ? I promised her 1 would protect her, and now ” 

“ The scoundrels have abducted her!” exclaimed Arthur, who 
had in the meantime recovered. “ It was a shrewdly planned 
piece of business.” 

“Abducted her? Impossible!” cried the landlord, looking at 
Arthur in amazement. “ Who are the men ?” 

A crowd of guests had gathered about Arthur and the land- 
lord, and while a barber tried to stanch the still bleeding wound, 
Montferrand bitterly said: 

“ One of the scoundrels bears a noble old name. Shame over 
the nobility of France that it tolerates a Talizac and Fougereuse 
in its ranks.” 

“Who speaks of Talizac and Fougereuse?” cried a fresh 
voice, and a very handsome man approached Monsieur Aube. 

“Ah, Monsieur Fanfaro,” said the landlord vivaciously, 
“ Heaven sends you at the right time. Forget all the troubles 
and the cares I have caused you; I will never say another word 
against athletes and acrobats, but help us!” 

“What has happened?” asked Fanfaro in astonishment, “I 
just came home and found every one in the restaurant excited. 
I asked, but no one knew anything, so I hurried here. Tell me 
what I can do for you, I am ready.” 

“ May God reward you. Monsieur Fanfaro; oh, if it is only not 
too late.” 

“ Monsieur Aube,” asked Fanfaro, politely, “ what is the mat- 
ter ?” 

“A young girl — it will bring me to my grave when I think 
that such a thing should happen in my house — I^ ” 

“ Landlord,” interrupted Arthur, “ let me tell the story to the 
gentleman. 

“ Unfortunately,” continued Montferrand, turning to Fanfaro, 
“ I am mixed up in the affair myself. I let myself be persuaded 
by the Vicomte de Talizac ” 

“ I thought so,” growled Fanfaro. 

‘ And his friend Velletri to accompany them here ” 

“Velletri? The Italian spy? The tool of the Jesuits, who 
treacherously betrayed his own countrymen, the carbonari?” 
asked Fanfaro, contemptuously. 

“ Really, you are telling me something new,” replied Arthur, 
“ but it served me right. Why wasn’t I more particular in the 
choice of my companions! Well, this worthy pair have ab^ 
ducted a young girl, a street-singer.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 57 

‘‘The scoundrels! Where have they carried the poor child 
to ?” 

“ God aloue knows! I only heard here about the plan, but the 
scoundrels did not inform me where they intended to bring the 
poor child,” replied Arthur, feeling ashamed at having had even 
the slightest connection with the affair, and inwardly vowing 
never again to have anything to do with the scoundrels who bear 
noble names. 

“ But the girl, no doubt, has relatives, parents or friends, who 
will follow her traces?” 

“ No,” replied Aube, “ she is an orphan, and is called the ‘ Mar* 
quise.’ ” 

“ Why has she got that sobriquet ?” 

“ I do not know. She is a very respectable girl.” 

“Where does she live?” 

“Not far from here, No. 42 Boulevard du Temple, fifth story. 
Robeckal, an extra waiter, and who, as I since found out, is a 
cunning scoundrel, had engaged her for to-night.” 

“ If Robeckal had a hand in the affair, then it can only be a 
scoundrelly one!” exclaimed Fanfaro, with a frown. 

“ Do you know him ?” 

“ Unfortunately yes; tell me what more do you know?” 

“Not much. The marquise lives together with an old, poor 
crazy woman, who lost her reason and the use of her limbs at a 
fire. The young girl, her name is Louison ” 

“ Louison ?” cried Fanfaro, in affright. 

“ Yes; why, what is the matter with you?” 

“ Nothing; tell me how old is the girl?” 

“ About sixteen.” 

“ My God, that would just be right; but no, it cannot be.” 

“ Monsieur Fanfaro,” said Mon tf errand, gently, “ can I do 
anything for you, you seem to be in trouble?” 

“ Oh, I have a horrible suspicion, I cannot explain it to you 
now, but the age and the name agree. Ah, that infamous Tali- 
zac! again and again he crosses my path, but if I catch him now, 
I will stamp upon him like a worm!” 

“ Do you intend to follow the robbers?” 

“ Certainly, I must rescue the girl.” 

“Monsieur Fanfaro,” said Montferrand, “do with me what 
you will, I will help you!” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE PURSUIT. 

Fanfaro looked gratefully at the young nobleman and then 
said : 

“Please tell me your name, so that I may know who I am 
under obligations to ?” 

“My name is Arthur de Montferrand” said the nobleman, 
handing his card to the young man, whose profession he knew, 
with the same politeness as if he were a peer of France. 

Fanfaro bowed and then hurriedly said: 

“ Let us not lose any more time; I ” 


58 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


Loud knocking at the house-door and tlie murmur of several 
voices, which came from below, made the young man pause. 
The planting of muskets on the pavement was now heard and 
a coarse voice cried; 

Open in the name of the law!’’ 

Fanfaro trembled. 

“The police!” exclaimed Aube breathing more freely; “per- 
haps the robbers have already been captured.” 

Fanfaro laid his hand upon Aube’s shoulder. 

“Monsieur Aube,” he said bitterly, “the police to-day do not 
bother about such trivial affairs. The minions of Louis XVIII. 
hunt different game.” 

“ Open,” came louder than before, “or we shall burst in the 
door.” 

“ My God, my God, what a day this is,” complained Aube, sink- 
ing helplessly on a chair; “ what do the police want in my 
house ?” 

“ Monsieur Aube, they seek conspirators, heroes of freedom and 
justice,” said Fanfaro earnestly. 

“ How so? What do you mean?” asked Aube, opening wide 
his eyes and looking at the young man. 

“ I am one of the men the police are looking for,” exclaimed 
Fanfaro coolly 

“ You!” exclaimed Montferrand in terror, “ then you are lost.” 

“ Not yet,” laughed Fanfaro, “Monsieur Aube, hurry and 
open the door and try to detain the people. That is all that is 
necessary. Good-bye for the present, and do not forget to hunt 
fo»* the girl; with the aid of God we will find her.” 

He ran out and the nobleman and the landlord heard him bound 
up the stairs. Aube now began to push back the iron bolt of the 
street door, and when it opened several policemen and an inspec- 
tor entered. 

“ I must say, Monsieur Aube,” cried the inspector angrily, 
“ you took a long time to obey his majesty’s order.” 

“ But at this time of night,” stammered Aube. “ What are you 
looking for, inspector?” 

“ Ask rather whom I am looking for?” retorted the inspector. 

His gaze fell on Arthur, who did not look very attractive with 
his bloody clothes and torn shirt. 

“ Who is this tramp ?” asked the inspector roughly. 

“ The tramp will have you thrown out if you are impertinent. 
My name is Arthur de Montferrand, and I am the son of the 
Marquis of Montferrand.” 

The inspector opened his eyes wide with astonishment. How 
could such a mistake happen to him ? The son of the Marquis 
of Montferrand. The inspector would have preferred just now 
to hide himself in a corner. He stammered apology upon apology, 
and then in an embarrassed way muttered: 

“ I have got a painful mission. I am to look for a ‘ suspect ’ in 
this house.” 

“ A ‘ suspect ?’ ” whispered Aube, anxiously. 

“Yes; conspirators who threaten the sacred person of the 
king.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


59 


And you are looking for these people in my house ?” asked 
Aube, apparently overwhelmed at the intelligence. 

“Yes, tliey are said to live here; two acrobats, named Girdel 
and Fanfaro.” 

“ Inspector, I am inconsolable; but I will not oppose you; do 
your duty,”’ said Aube, with the mien of a man who gives a 
kingdom away. 

Arthur and the landlord exchanged knowing looks as the in- 
spector strode toward the door. Fanfaro must be in safety by 
this time. 

“ The house is surrounded,” said the inspector, as he went 
away, ‘‘and I think we shall have little to do.” 

Mon tf errand trembled. Suppose Fanfaro had been captured! 
The policemen went to the upper story, which had been pointed 
out to them by the landlord as the residence of Girdel and 
Fanfaro. 

“ Open, in the name of the law!” thundered a voice, which 
shook the house; and then followed, hardly less loud, the angry 
exclamation : 

“ By Jupiter, the nest is empty; the birds have flown!” 

At this moment a voice cried from the street: 

“ Inspector, they are escaping over the roofs.” 

It was Simon, the worthy steward of the Marquis of Fou- 
gereuse, who assisted the police to-day. He had stationed him- 
self, with several oflicers, in front of the house, and had noticed 
two shadows gliding over the roofs. 

“Forward, men,” cried the inspector. “We must catch 
them, dead or alive.’” 

In a second, Simon had bounded up the stairs, and now stood 
near the official at the skylight. 

“ How slanting that roof is!” growled the inspector. “ One 
misstep and you lie in the street.” 

He carefully climbed out; Simon followed, and then they both 
looked around for the escaped conspirators. 

“ There they are!” exclaimed the steward, hastily; “ look, they 
have reached the edge of the roof and are going to swing them- 
selves over to the neighbor's roof! They are fools: the distaniie 
must be at least ten feet. They will either fall down and smash 
their heads on the pavement, or else fall into our hands.” 

Simon had seen aright. Girdel and Fanfaro were at the edge 
of the roof, and now the young man bent down and swung some- 
thing his pursuers could not make out. 

“ Surrender!” cried the inspector, holding himself on a chim- 
ney. 

Fanfaro now rose upright. He made a jump and the next 
minute he was on the neighbor’s roof. 

The inspector and Simon uttered a cry of rage, and redoubled 
it when they saw Fanfaro busying himself tying a stout rope to 
an iron hook which he comiected with another hook on the roof 
he had just left. 

Girdel now clambered to the edge of the roof, grasped the rope 
with both hands, and began to work his way across to Fanfaro. 

“ Quick, a knife!” cried the inspector. 


60 


THE SON OF MONfE-^CRISTO 


Simon handed him his pocket-lmife, and the policeman began 
to saw the rope through. Luckily for Girdel, the work weut 
very slow, for the knife was as dull as the rope was thick, and 
Simon, who only now began to remember that Girdel must not 
be killed at any price, loudly exclaimed! 

“ Stop, iuspector, are you out of your senses?” 

The policeman was no longer able to heed the warning. The 
knife had done its duty, the rope was cut! 

Girdel did not fall to the pavement though. At the decisive 
moment Fanfaro bent far over the roof, and with superhuman 
strength held on to the rope on which Girdel was, at the same 
time crying to him : 

“ Attention, the rope is cut, take your teeth.” 

Girdel understood at once, and his mighty jaws held the rope 
firmly. 

Fanfaro had bent far forward to hinder Girdel from being 
dashed against the wall, and kept in that position, until the 
athlete could work himself with his hands and teeth, to the 
edge of the roof. 

The roof was at length reached — Fanfaro swung his arms about 
Girdel and the next minute they both disappeared behind a tall 
chimney! 

“ Papa Girdel, we have nothing to fear now,” said Fanfaro, 
laughing, but soon he thought of Louison, and he sighed 
heavily. 

“What is the matter with you, my boy?” asked Girdel, in 
amazement. 

“ I will tell you some other time. Let us try to reach the street 
first, for our pursuers will surely try to get into the house and 
begin the hunt anew.” 

The athlete saw he was right, and they both began their 

E erilous flight over the roofs. For a time everything went right, 
ut suddenly Fanfaro paused and said: 

“ We are at a street corner.” 

“ That is a fatal surprise,” growled Girdel; “ what shall we do 
now ?” 

“ We must try to reach a roof- pipe and glide down.” 

“ That is easier said than done. Where will you find a roof- 
pipe able to sustain my weight?” 

Fanfaro looked at Girdel in amazement. He had not thought 
of that. 

“ Then let us try to find a sky-light and get into some house,” 
he said, after a pause. 

“ Suppose the window leads to an inhabited room ?” observed 
Girdel. 

“ Then we can explain our perilous position. We will not be 
likely to tumble into a policeman’s house.” 

“ Let us hope for the best,” replied Girdel. 

At the same moment a terrific crash was heard and Fanfaro 
saw his foster-father sink away. Girdel had unconsciously 
trodden on a window-pane and fallen through ! 

“ That is a new way of paying visits,” cried a voice now which 
Fanfaro thought he recognized, and while he made desperate at- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 61 

tempts to swin^ himself again on the- roof, a hand armed with 
a tallow candle appeared in the opening. 

“ I will light the gentlemen,” continued the voice. 

“ Bobichel, is it you ?” cried Fanfaro, joyously. 

Certainly, and I ought to know you,” was the reply; really, 
the master and Fanfaro.” 

“Bobichel,” said Girdel, greatly astonished, “is it really you? 
We thought you were dead!” 

“ Bahl a clown can stand a scratch; but come quickly into my 
room, it is cold outside.” 

Girdel and Fanfaro entered the small attic and Bobichel re- 
ceived his old comrades cordially. 

“ The ball did not hit you, then?” asked Girdel; “we thought 
you were gone.” 

“ Almost,” replied the clown; “I dragged myself a few steps 
further, with the bullet in my side, and then sank down uncon- 
scious. When I awoke I found myself in the hospital at 
Remiremont, where I remained until a week ago. Later on I 
will give you all the details. For to-day I will only say that I ar- 
rived in Paris yesterday and rented this room here. I expected 
to find you here, and I intended to find out to-morrow morning. 
What happy accident brought you here ?” 

“ In the first place, the police,” replied Fanfaro; “ they hunted 
us like a pack of dogs does a wild animal, and if we had not 
escaped over the roofs we would now be behind lock and 
key.” 

“But why are you pursued?” asked Bobichel, anxiously. 
“Do you belong to the conspiracy of which there is so much 
talk ?” 

“ Probably,” replied Girdel. 

“ Is there a place for me in the conspiracy?” asked the clown, 
vivaciously, “I am without employment just now, and if you 
wish to take me in tow, I ” 

“We shall attend to it,” said Fanfaro, cordially. 

“ How is little Caillette getting on?” asked Bobichel, after a 
pause. 

“ Very well, thank you. We shall let her know to-morrow 
morning that we are safe.” 

“ Then she is in Paris, too?” 

“Certainly. We lived ilp till now in the Golden Calf. 
However we must look for other rooms now. We can speak 
about that to-morrow. Let us go to sleep now, it must be very 
late,” said Girdel; and looking at his watch, he added: “Really, 
it is two o’clock.” 

“ Bobichel’s eyes knew that long ago,” laughed Fanfaro. “ Go 
to bed, old friend, you are tired.” 

“Oh, I am not tired,” said the clown, yawning in spite of 
of himself. “ I will not go to bed after I have found you 
again.” 

“ You must do so, Bobichel,” said Fanfaro, earnestly. “ You 
are still weak, and must husband your strength. Go calmly 
to bed. Girdel and I have still a great deal to consider, 
and we are both glad that we need not camp in the street,” 


62 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


Bobichel hesitated no longer; he threw himself on his hard 
couch and in less than five minutes he was fast asleep. 

As soon as Girdel found himself alone with Fanfaro, he said, 
in an anxious voice: 

“ Fanfaro, tell me what ails you. I know you too well not to 
be aware that something extraordinary has happened. Place 
confidence in me; perhaps 1 can help you.” 

“ If you only could,” sighed Fanfaro; “but you are right, I 
will tell you all. First, Papa Girdel, I must ask you a few ques- 
tions about my past ” 

“ Speak; what do you wish to know?” 

“ What did you find out about my mother ?” 

“ That she was the victim of a confiagration. She was in a 
farm-house which had been set fire to by Cossaclis.” 

“And my father?” 

“ He died the death of a hero, fighting for his country.” 

“ As far as my memory goes,” said Fanfaro, pensively, “ I was 
in a large, dark room. It must have been a subterranean cham- 
ber. My parents had intrusted my little sister to my care; I held 
her, by the hand, but suddenly I lost her, and could never find 
her again.” 

“ I know, I know.” said Girdel, son’owfully. 

“ Since this evening,” continued the young man, “ I have been 
thinking of my poor little Louison. I have not been able to tell 
you yet that a respectable young girl, who earns her living by 
singing, was forcibly abducted from the Golden Calf this even- 
ing.” 

“ Impossible! Monsieur Aube is a brave man,” exclaimed Gir- 
del, impatiently. 

“Ah! Aube knows nothing of the matter. He is innocent. 
The villain who did it is a bad man, who has already crossed our 
path.” 

“ And his name?” 

“ Vicomte de Talizac.” 

“ Talizac? Has this family got a thousand devils in its serv- 
ice ? It was the vicomte’s father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, 
who wished to kill us at Sainte-Ame; his steward ran to Remire- 
mont to get the police.” 

“ Like father like son. The proverb says that the apple don’t 
fall far from the tree. The young girl whom Talizac abducted is 
named Louison, and I ” ' 

“ My poor boy, you do not really think ” 

“That this Louison is my poor lost sister? Yes, I fear so. 
Papa Girdel. When I heard the name, I trembled in every 
limb, and since then the thought haunts me. If I knew that 
Louison were dead I would thank God on my knees, but it is 
terrible to think that she is in the power of that scoundrel. The 
fact that Robeckal has a hand in the affair stamps it at once as a 
piece of villainy.” 

“ Robeckal is the vicomte’s accomplice?” cried Girdel, spring- 
ing up. “Oh, Fanfaro, why did you not say so at once? We 
must not lose a minute! Ah, now I understand all! Roebckal 
abducted the poor child and brought it to Rolla. I know they 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 63 

are both in Paris, and I will move heaven and earth to find 
them!” 

“ May God reward you, Papa Gird el,” said Fanfaro, with deep 
emotion. ‘‘ I will in the meantime try to find the invalid with 
whom the street-singer lives, and ” 

“ Is there nothing for Bobichel to do?” asked the clown, sitting 
up in his bed. 

“ Oh, Bobichel!” exclaimed Fanfaro, gratefully,” if you want 
to help us ?” 

“ Of course I do. I will accompany master to Robeckal, for I 
also have a bone to pick with the scoundrel. ’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LOUISE. 

Louison’s crazy mother had passed a miserable night. Ac- 
customed to see Louison before going to sleep and hear her gen- 
tle voice, and not having her cries answered on this particular 
evening, the poor woman, who had not been able to move a step 
for years, dragged herself on her hands and feet into the next 
room and shoved the wliite curtains aside. 

The painful cry of the invalid as she saw the bed empty 
drowned a loud knock at the door, and only when the knocking 
was repeated and a voice imploringly cried: ‘‘Open, for God’s 
sake, open quick!” the burned woman listened; where had she 
beard the voice ? 

“Quick, open — it is on account of Louison,” came again from 
the outside. It was Fanfaro who demanded entrance. 

A cry which w^as no longer human came from the breast of 
the burned woman, and, collecting all her strength, she crawled 
to the door and tore so long at the curtains which covered the 
pane of glass, that they came down and Fanfaro could see right 
in the door. As soon as he saw the position of the poor woman, 
he understood at once that she could not open the door, and 
making up his mind quickly, he pressed in the window, and the 
next minute he was in the room. 

“ Where is Louison, madame ?” he exclaimed. 

The woman did not answ^er; she looked steadily at him and 
plunged her fingers in her gray hair. 

“ Madame, listen to me. Louison has been abducted. Don’t 
you know anything ?” 

The poor thing still remained silent, even though her lips 
trembled convulsively, and the deep-setting eyes gazed steadily 
at the young man. 

“ Madame,” began Fanfaro, desperately, “listen to my words. 
Can you not remember where Louison told you she was going? 
You know who Louison is; she nurses and cares for you. Can 
you not tell me anything?” 

At length a word came from*’the burned woman’s breast. 

“Jacques, Jacques!” she stammered, clutching the young 
man’s knees, and looking at him. 

Fanfaro trembled. Who was this horrible woman who called 
him by the name of his childhood?” 


64 


THE SON OF MONTE CEISTO. 


“ Louisonl Jacques!” uttered the toothless lips, and hot, 
scalding tears rolled over the scarred cheeks. 

A flood of never-bef ore- felt emotions rushed over Fanfaro; he 
tenderly bent over the poor woman, and gently said: 

“ You called me Jacques. I was called that once. What do 
yuu know of me ?” 

The burned woman looked hopelessly at him; she tried hard 
to understand him, but her clouded mind could not at first grasp 
what he meant. 

• “ I will tell you what I know of the past,” continued Fanfaro, 
slowly. “I formerly lived at Leigoutte in the Vosges. My 
father s name was Jules, my mother’s Louise, and my little 
sister Louison — where is Louison ?” 

At last a ray of reason broke from the disfigured eyes, and 
she whispered: 

“Jacques, my dear Jacques! I am Louise, your mother, and 
the wife of Jules Fougeres!” 

‘‘My mother!” stammered Fanfaro, with emotion, and taking 
the broken woman in his arms, he fervently kissed her disfigured 
face. The poor woman clung to him. The veil of madness was 
torn aside, and stroking the handsome face of the young man 
with her bi'oken fingers, she softly murmured: 

“ I have you again. God be thanked!” 

“And where is Louison ?” asked Fanfaro, anxiously. 

Still the brain of the sick woman could not grasp all the new 
impressions she had received, and although she looked again 
and again at P^anfaro, she left the question unanswered. 

At any other time Fanfaro would have left the sick woman 
alone, but his anxiety about Louison gave him no peace. He did 
not doubt a minute but what his mother had recognized Louison 
long ago as her daughter, and so he asked more urgently: 

“ IMother, where is Louison? Your little Louison, my sister?” 

“Louison?” repeated the sick woman, with flaming eyes. 
“ Oh, she is good; she brings me fruit and flowers.” 

“ But where is she now ?” 

“ Gone,” moaned the invalid. 

“Gone? Whereto?” 

“ I do not know. Her bed is empty.” 

“ Then I was not deceived. She has been abducted by that 
scoundrel, Talizac!” 

“ Talizac?” repeated the maniac, with a foolish laugh. “ Oh, 
I know him, do not let him in; he brings unhappiness — unhap- 
piness!” 

“ Then he has been here?” cried Fanfaro, terror stricken. 

“No, not here — in — Sachemont — I — oh, my poor head.” 

With a heart-rending cry the poor woman sank to the ground 
unconscious. The excitement of the last liour had been too 
much for her. F'anfaro looked at the fainting woman, not know- 
ing what to do. He took her in his arms and was about to 
I)lace her on the bed, when the door was softly opened and three 
forms glided in. 

“Girdel, thank Heaven!” cried Fanfaro, recognizing the ath- 
lete, “ have you folind Robeckal ?” 


THE SON OF 310NTE-CFJST0. 


G5 


No, the wretches moved out of their former residence in the 
Rue Vinaigrier, yesterday, and no one could tell us where they 
went.” 

I thought so,” groaned Fanfaro, and then he hastily added: 

Girdel, the unhappy woman I hold in my arms is my 
mother. No, do not think I am crazy, it is the truth; and the 
girl who was abducted is my sister Louison.” 

•‘Impossible!” stammered Girdel. 

“His mother!” came a whisper behind Fanfaro, and turning 
hastily round he saw Caillette — who stood at the door with tearj 
in her eyes— with Bobichel, who said: 

“ Caillette will take care of the invalid until we have found 
Louison; I say that we move heaven and earth so that we find 
her.” 

“You are right, Bobichel,” said Fanfaro, and pressing a kiss 
upon his mother’s forehead, he ran off with Girdel and the 
clown. 


CHAPTER XVL 

SWINDLED. 

While Montferrand and Talizac were struggling, Robeckal 
slipped up to the door and winked to Louison. She hurried 
out and implored Robeckal to bring her out of this miserable 
house. This was just what the wretch had been waiting for, 
and hardly five minutes later he was in a small street with the 
betrayed girl. In this street a wagon stood. Robeckal seized 
the unsuspecting girl by the waist, lifted her into the wagon, 
and sprang in himself. The driver whipped up the horses and 
away they went at a rapid gait. 

“Where are you bringing me to?” cried Louison in terror, as 
she saw the carriage take a wrong direction. 

“Keep still, my little pigeon,” laughed Robeckal, “I am 
bringing you to a place where it will please you.” 

Louison for a moment was speechless; she soon recovered her- 
self, however, comprehended her position at a glance, hastily 
pulled down the carriage window, and cried aloud for help. 

“ Silence, minx!” exclaimed RolDeckal roughly, and, pulling a 
cloth out of his- pocket, he held it in front of Louison’s face. 

“ Ah, now you are getting tame,” he mockingly laughed, as 
the young girl, moaning softly, fell back in the cushions. The 
carriage hurried along and finally stopped in an obscure street 
of the Belleville Quarter. 

Robeckal sprang out, and taking the unconscious Louison in 
his arms, he carried her up the stairs of a small house, and 
pulled the bell, while the carriage rolled on. 

“ Ah, here you are: let me see the chicken!” 

With these words Rolla received her comrade. 

She put the lamp close to Louison’s face, and then said: 

“Your Talizac hasn’t got bad taste; the little one is hand- 
some.” 

“ Is everything in order?” asked Robeckal, going up the stairs 
after the “ Cannon Queen.” 


66 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO, 


Certainly, look for yourself.” 

Robeckal entered an elegantly furnished room, and, placing 
Louison on a sofa, he said in a commendatory tone: 

“ It's pretty fair.” 

“ Don’t you think so ? Leave the rest to me; I have a grand 
idea.” 

“ An idea?” repeated Robeckal, doubtingly. 

“ Yes, an idea that will bring us in a nice sum of money.” 

“ Then I am satisfied. If the little one only does not cause us 
any embarrassment.” 

“ No fear of that. In tlie first place she should sleep.” 

The virago poured a few drops of a watery liquid in a spoon 
and approached Louison. The latter had her lips parted, but 
her teeth were tightly drawn together. Robeckal carefully put 
the blade of his knife between them, and Roila poured the liquid 
clown Louison’s throat. 

“ Now come down-stairs with me,” she said, turning to 
Robeckal, “ and if your vicomte comes you will praise me.” 

The worthy pair now left Louison, who was sleeping, alone, 
and after Roila had tightly locked the door and put the key in 
lier pocket, they both strode to the basement. Here they en- 
tered a small, dirty room, and Roila had just filled two glasses 
wdth rum, when a carriage stopped in front of the door. 

Here they are,” said Robeckal, hastily emptying her glass 
and going to the street door, from whence came the sound of 
loud knocks. 

Shortly afterward he returned in company with Talizac and 
Velletri. The vicomte’s face was fiushed with the wine he had 
been drinking; spots of blood were on his clothes, and his walk 
was uneven and unsteady. Velletri, on the other hand, showed 
not a trace of excitement, and his dress was neat and select. 

“A glass of water!” commanded the vicomte, in a rough 
voice, turning to Roila. 

The fat woman looked angrily at him, and while she brought 
the water she muttered to herself: 

“ Wait now. You shall pay dearly for your coarseness.” 

Talizac drank, and then said: 

“ Is the little one here ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You haven’t done anything to her, have you?” 

“ What do you take me for?” growled Roila. 

“Bring me some wash water,” said the vicomte, without 
noticing Rolla's sensitiveness, and turning to Velletri, he added: 
“ Montferrand handled me roughly; I look as if I had been 
torn from the gallows.” 

“As if you won’t get there one of these days,” growled Roila; 
and, lighting a candle, she said aloud, “If the gentlemen wish 
I will conduct them to the ‘ Marquise.’ ” 

“ Go on; where is she?” 

“ In the upper story — she is sleeping.” 

“ So much the better. I will lavish my affection on her, and 
see if she is still as prudish.” 

Roila preceded the vicomte up the stairs. As she went past 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 67 

she exchanged a quick glance with Robeckal, and the latter 
growled to himself : 

“ There is something up with her; I will watch and help her 
should it be necessary.” 

Rolla and Talizac were now in front of the door which led 
to Louison’s room. The vicomte looked inquiringly at his com- 
panion, and said: 

“ Open it.” 

“ One moment, we are not as far as that yet. Just look again 
at the little one first.” 

With these words Rolla opened a sliding window in the door 
and stepped back, while the vicomte bent down and looked in 
tlie partly lit room. 

Louison lay fast asleep on the sofa. The pretty head rested 
on the left arm, while the right hung carelessly down, and the 
long eyelashes lay tightly on the slightly fiushed cheeks. The 
small, delicate mouth was slightly compressed, and the mass of 
silky hair fell in natural curls about the white forehead. 

“ Isn't she charming ?” giggled Rolla. 

Talizac was a libertine, a dissipated man, and yet when he saw 
the sleeping girl, a feeling he could not account for over- 
came him . He forgot where he was, that the miserable woman 
at his side had helped to carrv out his dastardly plans, and all 
his longing now was to throw himself at Louison’s feet, and say 
to her: 

I love you dearly!” 

“ Open,” he hastily ordered. 

Rolla let the window fall again, and looked impertinently at 
him. 

My lord,” she said, with a courtesy, “before I open this 
door, you will pay me twenty thousand francs. 

“ Woman, are you mad ?” 

“ Bah! you would shout so ! I said twenty thousand francs, 
and I mean it. Here is my hand. Count ia the money and I 
will g:et the key.” 

“ Enough of this foolish talk,” cried the vicomte, in a rage. 
“ I paid your comrade the sum he demanded, and that settles 
it.” 

“You are more stupid than I thought,” laughed Rolla. “IJ 
you do not pay, nothing will come of the affair.” 

“ But this is a swindle,” said the vicomte. 

“ Do not shout such language through the whole house,” 
growled Rolla. “ Do you think it is a pleasure to abduct girls? 
Robeckal had enough trouble with the little one and -” 

What Rolla said further was drowned by the noise Talizac 
made as he threw himself against the door. It did not move an 
inch though, aud before the vicomte could try again, Robeckal 
hurried up with a long knife in his hand. 

“ What is the matter?” he angrily cried. 

“ Your friend the vicomte forgot his purse and thinks he can 
get the girl on credit,” mockingly replied Rolla. 

The noise brought Velletri up too, but as soon as he saw 


68 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


Robeckal’s long knife, he turned about again. The vicomte 
too became pacified. 

“ 1 will give you all the money I have with me,” he said, 
as he turned the contents of his purse into Rolla’s big hand. 
“ Count and see how much it is.” 

“Ten, twenty, eight hundred francs,” counted the Cannon 
Queen, “ we shall keep the money on account, and when you 
bring the rest, you can get the key.” 

“ This is miserable,” hissed Talizac, as he turned to go; “ vvho 
will vouch to me that you won’t ask me again for the money V ’ 

“ Our honor, vicomte,” replied RoHa, grinning. “ We think 
as much of our reputation as high-toned people.” 

“Scoundrels,” muttered Talizac as he went away with 
Velletri. “If we could only do without them!” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MACHIAVELLI AND COMPANY. 

The Marquis of Fougereuse was sitting in his study, and Simon 
stood beside him. 

“ He escaped from us again,” said the marquis frowning. 

“ God knows how it happened, my lord; my plans were all so 
well laid that I cannot understand how the affair fell through ?” 

“ Postponed is not given up,” observed the nobleman; “ and as 
Fanfaro does not yet suspect who he really is, he can go on 
compromising himself. Have you any further details with re- 
gard to the conspiracy ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, we have trustworthy witnesses, who can swear, 
in case of "need, that Fanfaro planned an attempt upon the 
sacred person of the king.” 

“Very good; but still the attempt must be really made, so 
that Fanfaro could be convicted.” 

“I have attended to that. One of our agents will set the 
harmless attempt in motion, and the individual selected — who, 
by the way, has escaped the gallows more than once — will swear 
in court that Fanfaro is the intellectual head of the assassina- 
tion and chief conspirator.” 

Before the marquis could express his satisfaction, the Marquis 
of Montferrand was announced. 

“ A visit at this hour!” cried Fougereuse, in amazement; “it is 
hardly seven o’clock.” 

“ The gentleman comes on important business, as he informed 
me,” said the servant. 

“Bring the marquis in,” ordered the nobleman; and as the 
servant went away he hastily said to Simon: “Hide behind 
the curtain, and remain there until the interview is over; per- 
haps you might hear something that will further our plans.” 

femon nodded and disappeared, while the marquis was led in. 

Arthur’s father was a man of imposing presence. He looked 
down upon the beggar nobility which fawned about the court, 
to receive money or favors. 

The old man looked pale. He hastily approached the marquis 
and said: • 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


69 


‘‘ Marquis you imagine you are a faithful adherent of the mon- 
archy, but scandals such as take place to-day, are not calcu- 
lated to raise the Fougereuse and Talizacs in the estimation of 
the court.*’ 

“You are speaking in riddles, marquis !” exclaimed Fouge- 
reuse, in amazement. 

“ So much the worse for you, if your sou’s conduct must be 
told you by another party,” said the old man, sternly. 

“ What is the matter with my son ?” 

“Tlie Vicomte de Talizac has dishonored himself and the 
cause you serve.” 

“ My son is young and wild. Has he again committed one of 
bis stupid follies?” asked the marquis, uneasily. 

“ If it only were a stupid folly! The vicomte had a quarrel 
last night with my son, because my son wished to hinder him 
from committing a dastardly act. My son boxed the vicomte’s 
ears, upon which the latter tried to stab him with a knife.” 

“ Impossible!” cried Fougereuse, in a rage. 

“ I am speaking the truth,” declared the old gentleman, 
calmly. 

“ What was the nature of this dastardly act?” 

“The vicomte was drunk and employed people to abduct a 
respectable young girl, a street-singer. My son was in the so- 
ciety of yours, in a restaurant of a low order. When he heard 
what the affair was. he energetically protested and tried to hin- 
der the vicomte and his friend Velletri from carrying out their 
plot. They quarreled, the vicomte was boxed, on the ears and 
my son was stabbed. They both received what they deserved. 
\Vhat brought me here is another matter. You are aware that 
I consented to speak to my cousin the Comtesse of Salves in re- 
lation to the marriage of her daughter with your son. From 
what happened last night, I should regard it as a misfortune for 
Irene if she becomes the vicomte’s wife, and I came here to tell 
you this.” 

Fougereuse became pale and clutched the back of a chair to 
keep from falling. At this moment tlie rustle of a silk dress 
was heard, and Madeleine, the marquis’ wife, entered the room. 

The marquis excitedly approached her. 

“The vicomte is a scoundrel!” he cried, in a rage; “ he has 
dragged the old noble name in the mud, thanks to his mother’s 
bringing up. You have never refused him a wish.” 

Madeleine’s blue eyes shot gleams of fire; she looked above hei 
husband as if he had been empty air, and turned to the Marquis 
of Mon tf errand. 

“Monsieur le Marquis,” she politely said, “my son desired 
me to offer you his apologies.” 

“ Apology ?” repeated Mon tf errand, coldly, “ for the box on 
tlie ear he got ?” 

“ No, my lord, but because he was so intoxicated as to raise 
the ire of your son. He would not have gone so far if he had * 
been sober. As to the affair wdth the street-singer, it is not so 
serious as you imagine. My son regrets very much that such a 
trivial affair Jias been the ineans of caur. ing a rupture betw^eeit 


70 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


him and your son. He has already taken steps to indemnify 
the girl for the wrong he done her, and I am positive the little 
one will have her liberty restored to her before many hours have 
passed. Is the word of the Marquise de Fougereuse sufficient 
for you, my lord F 

“Perfectly sufficient,” said Montferrand, gallantly kissing the 
marquise's hand. 

“ Then we can count on seeing you to-night at our house?” 
asked Madeleine. “ I have a surprise in store for my friends.” 

“ Can one find out in advance the nature of it?” asked Mont- 
ferrand, while Fougerei se looked anxiously at Madeleine. 

“Oh, yes; his majesty has condescended to appoint the vi- 
comte a captain in the Life Guards with the decoration of St. 
Louis,” said the marquis proudly. 

“ Oh, I call that a surprise,” cried Fougereuse, more freely, and 
Montferrand hastened to extend his congratulations. 

“ The Countess of Salves and her daughter have signified their 
intention of being present,” continued Madeleine, “ and as soon 
as my son receives iiis com mission, the engagement of the young 
couple will be announced. ’ 

“ It is only what one might expect from the Marquise of Fou- 
gereuse,” said Montferrand politely, as he rose. “ Good-bye then, 
until this evening.” 

The marquis accompanied the old man to the door, then re- 
turned to his wife and excitedly asked; 

“ Madeleine, is all this true?” 

Instead of answering, the marquise contemptuously shrugged 
her shoulders and left the room to hunt up her son. 

“ It is all settled,” she said; “here are the twenty thousand 
francs you need to silence the girl; and now try to bring honor 
to your new position.” 

Madeleine placed a pocket-book on the table and went away. 
Talizac laughed in his sleeve. He did not think he could obtain 
the money so easily. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

LOUISON. 

Toward noon Louison awoke from the lethargic sleep in 
which Rolla’s liquid had thrown her, and her first look fell upon 
the virago, who was sitting in a half-drunken condition near the 
window. The young girl unconsciously uttered a cry when she 
saw the repulsive woman, and this cry aroused Rolla from out 
of her dreams about well-filled brandy bottles into reality, 

“ Well, my pigeon, how goes it?” she asked, grinning. 

“ My head hurts” replied Louison faintly and throwing an 
anxious look about the strange apartment she timidly added: 
Where am I 

“Where you are? Among good people certainly, who have 
^become interested in you and will do what’^ right.” 

Louison was silent and tried to collect her thoughts. But it 
was no use, she had to close her eyes again from exhaustion. 

“ Ah, you are sensible I see, that pleases me,” said Rolla gig- 


THE SON OE MONTE-CRTSTO, 


n 


gling. “ Eobeckal ti)onglit you would stamp and cry, but I said 
right away: ‘ The little one is smart she will not throw her fort- 
une away.’ What is the use of virtue any way; it hardly 
brings one dry bread, so the sooner you throw it overboard the 
better it is. Oh, you will make your way, never fear. Your face 
is handsome, and who knows but what you will have your own 
elegant house and carriage one of these days. The little vi- 
comte is certainly no Adonis, with his high shoulder, but one 
cannot have everything and ” 

Louison had listened to Rollas words with increasing loathing, 
and when she heard the name of the vicomte pronounced, her 
memory returned to her. Hastily springing up, she uttered a 
loud cry, and clutching Eolla tightly about the shoulder, she 
exclaimed. 

‘‘ Let me go or you shall be sorry for it!” 

Eolla looked at the street-singer with a foolish laugh, and, 
shaking her thick head, slie laconically said. 

“Stay here.” 

“ But I will not stay here ” declared Louison firmly. I will 
go away!” Either you let me go or I shall cry for help. I am 
a respectable girl, and you ought to be ashamed to treat me in 
tliis way.” 

“ So you — are a respectable girl,” said the woman, in a maud- 
lin voice. “ What conceit — you have! You might have been so 
yesterday, but to day— try it — tell the people that you spent a 
few hours in the Cannon Queen’s house in Belleville and are still 
a respectable girl. Ha! Ha! They will laugh at you, or spit in 
your face. No, no, my pretty dear, no one will believe that 
fairy story, and if an angel from heaven came down and took 
rooms in my house, it would be ruined. Give in, my chicken, 
and don’t show the white feather! No one will believe that you 
are respectable and virtuous, and I think you ought to save your- 
self the trouble. It is too late now.” 

“You lie!” cried Louison, in desperation. 

“ So — I lie — it is about time that I shut your bold mouth,” 
growled the virago, and raising her voice, she cried: ‘ Eobeckal, 
bring me the bottle.” 

The next minute hurried steps were heard coming up the stairs, 
and Eolla hastened to open the locked door. It was Eobeckal, ■ 
wlio entered with a small bottle in his hand. When Louison 1 
saw him she turned deathly pale, and running to the window, 
she burst the panes with her clinched fist and called loudly for 
help. 

“ Minx!” hissed Eobeckal, forcibly holding her back and throw- 
ing her to the ground. 

With Eolla’s assistance he now poured the contents of the bot- 
tle down her throat. When he tried to open the tightly com- 
pressed lips, Louison bit him in the finger. He uttered an oath, 
jmt a piece of wood between her teeth, and triumphantly ex- 
claimed: 

“ For the next few hours you are done for, you little hussy.” 

“ If it were only not too much,” said Eolla, as Louison, groan- 
ing loudly, sank backwai'd and closed her eyes. 


72 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


“ Have 110 fear; I know my methods,” laughed Robeckal. I 
am not so foolish as to kill the little one before we have the 
vicomte’s money in our hands. She will sleep a few hours, and 
wake up tamed. Come, let us put her on the sofa and leave her 
alone.” 

The worthy pair laid the unconscious girl on the sofa and went 
away. Rolla, on closing the door, put the key in her pocket. 
They began to play cards in the basement, a pursuit which 
agreed with them, and at the same time swallowed deep draughts 
of brandy. 

Toward six o’clock the vicomte entered. Ho threw a well- 
filled pocket-book on the table, and in a tone of command said: 
“The key!” 

“ First we will count,” growled Rolla: and opening the pocket- 
book with her fat hands, she passed the contents in review. 

“It is correct,” she finally said; and taking the key out of her 
pocket she handed it to the vicomte. 

As soon as the latter had left the room, Rolla shoved the 
pocket-book in her dirty dress, and hastily said: 

“ Come, Robeckal, the little one might make a noise. Let him 
see how he will get through with her.” 

Robeckal acquiesced, and they both quickly left the house, 
leaving all the doors open behind them. 

They had hardly been gone, when a cry of rage rang through 
the house, and immediately afterward the vicomte burst into 
the room. 

“ You have deceived* me,” he cried, in a rage; “ the window is 
open and the girl is gone!” 


CHAPTER XVITI. 

THE CANAL. 

By what miracle had Louison escaped? In his anxiety to 
make the young girl harmless, Robeckal had given her such a 
stiong dose that the narcotic had just the opposite effect, and 
before an hour had passed, a hammering and beating on her 
te mples awakened her again. The excited state in which she 
was made her unable to grasp a clear thought; but one thing 
stood plainly before her — she must leave this horrible house at 
any price. 

Slowly rising, she felt for the door; it was locked. She then 
walked softly to the window and looked at the street. It was 
deserted and empty of pedestrians, a fog hung over it, and if 
Louison could only reach the street she would be safe. 

Through the broken pane the fresh air entered, and she tried 
then to collect her thoughts. The horrible woman had spoken 
about Belleville; if she were only in the street she would soon 
reach the Boulevard du Temple and then — further than this she 
did not get with her plans. Away, only away, the rest would 
take care of itself. 

What had the virago said ? “ Too late, too late, too late!” The 
horrible words rang in her ears like a death knell; every pulse 
beat repeated, “ Too late!” 


‘ THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CRIST0, 


73 


Pressing her hand to her temples, Louison began to sob. Just 
then the coarse laughter of her torturers sounded from the base- 
ment and her tears immediately dried. 

Softly, very softly, she opened the window, stood on the sill and 
swung herself to the outer sill. A pole which served to support 
a grape-vine gave her a hold. She carefully climbed down its 
side, reached the street and ran as if pursued by the furies. 

The fog grew denser, and more than once Louison knocked 
against a wall or ran against passers by, but these obstacles did 
not hinder her from running on. 

How long she had been going in this way she did not know, 
but suddenly a blast of cold air grazed her burning face, and look- 
ing up she perceived that she had reached the Canal Str Martin. 
She had only to cross the bridge to reach those quarters of the 
great city which were known to her, but still she did not do it. A 
short while she stood there not knowing what to do. Then she 
strode on, timidly looking around her and walked down the 
damp stone steps leading to the water. 

For a long time she stood on the last step. All around every- 
thing was still, and only the monotonous ripple Of the waves 
reached the deserted girl’s ears. With her arms folded across 
her bosom, she gazed at the black waters; the murmuring waves 
played about her feet and then she paused so long — long 

Robeckal and Rolla hurried through the streets with feverish 
haste. The ground burned under their feet, and they did not 
dare to breathe before they had turned their back upon tlie cap- 
ital. They were just turning into the Rue St. Denis, when an 
iron fist was laid upon Robeckars shoulder, and forced the 
frightened man to stand still. 

“What does this mean?” he angrily cried, as he turned 
around, “ a ” 

He paused, for he had recognized Fanfaro. Bobichel had 
clutched Rolla at the same time, and shaking her roughly, he 
cried: 

“ Monster, where is the street-singer ?” 

‘ What do I know of a street-singer?” cried Rolla, boldly. 
“ Let me go or I shall cry out.” 

“ Cry away,” replied Bobichel. “You must know best your- 
self whether you desire the interference of the police or not.” 

Rolla thought of the well-filled pocket-book and kept silent. 
Robeckal, in the meantime, had almost died of strangulation, 
for Fanfaro’s fingers pressed his throat together; and when he 
was asked if he intended to answer, he could only nod with his 
head. 

“ Where is Louison ?” asked Fanfaro, in a voice of thunder, 

“ No 16 Rue de Belleville.” 

“ Alone?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Scoundrels, God help you, if all is not right,” hissed Fanfaro, 
“ bring us quickly to the house named.” 

“ Oh, it is very easy to find,” began Rolla, but Bobichel threat- 
ened her with his fist and cried: 

“ So much the better for you, forward march!" 


74 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO, 


Robeckal and the Cannon Queen held in the grips of Fanfaro 
and the clown, proceeded on the way to Belleville. They 
stopped in front of No. 16, and it required the application of 
force to get them to enter. 

Rolla, in advance of the others, went to the top story. The door 
was wide open and the room empty. 

‘‘Really, he has taken her along?” she exclaimed in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Of whom are you speaking ?” asked Fanfaro, trembling with 
fear. 

“Of whom else but the little vicorate.” 

“His name?” 

“Talizac.” 

“The villain!” muttered Fanfaro to himself. 

Bobichel was still holding Rolla by the arm. His gaze, roving 
about the room had espied a note on the table. Rolla saw it too, 
but before she could take it the clown had called Fanfare’s at- 
tention to it. 

“You have swindled me,” the young man lead, “you have 
helped her to escape, confound you!” 

“ Thank God all is not lost yet,” whispered Fanfaro, handing 
Bobichel the paper. 

“One moment,” said the clown, “I have an idea which I 
would like to carry out.” 

With a quick movement he threw Robeckal to the ground, and 
before the wretch could get up again, Bobichel had bound him 
with a thick rope and threw him into a closet. He locked it and 
putting the key in his pocket, he turned to Rolla. 

“March, away with you,” he said, roughly, “ and do not at- 
tempt to free him; he can ponder over his sins.” 

Rc»lla hurried to leave the house. If Robeckal died she would 
be the sole possessor of the twenty thousand francs. Bobichel 
and Fanfaro left the house likewise, and Robeckal remained 
crying behind. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SPLENDOR. 

The Fougereuse mansion was resplendent with light. Made- 
leine intended to celebrate the vicomte’s appointment to a cap- 
taincy in a fitting way, and hundreds of invitations had been 
issued and accepted. 

One fine carriage after another rolled up; the marquise, dressed 
in princely style, received her guests in the fairy -like parlom, and 
soon a brilliant assembly crowded the rooms. 

The marquis and his wife looked proudly at the vicomte, 
who, however, could hardly restrain his disappointment. He 
did not know what hurt him most, the loss of Lonison or the 
twenty thousand francs, and he .railed against himself for 
being so foolish as to imagine that Robeckal and Rolla would 
keep their word. 

“ Do not frown so,” whispered Madeleine to her son, “ here 
comes Irene.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


75 


The vicomte bit his lips until they bled, and then approached 
Irene de Salves, who had just entered, accompanied by her 
mother and the Marquis de Mon tf errand. 

Irene was dazzlingly beautiful, and her rich dress enhanced 
her charming appearance. There was, however, a melancholy 
look in her dark eyes, but her voice sounded clear a'lid strong as 
she replied to the vicomte’s greeting. 

Brought up in the traditions of the nobility, Irene did not 
think of resisting her mother, when the latter told her that her 
engagement with the Vicomte de Talizac would be announced 
that evening. Irene loved Fanfaro with all the fervor of her 
soul, but she would never have dared to tell her mother of her 
attachment for the acrobat. 

When the vicomte pressed her hand upon his arm, she trem- 
bled violently, and a gleam of rage shot out of the dark eyes, 
while Talizac thought to himself that the young girl had every 
reason to be proud of him. Captain in the Life Guards and 
Knight of St. Louis. The more he considered it the more he 
came to the conclusion that he could demand more, and only the 
circumstance that the young countess possessed several millions 
caused him to submit to the match. 

The first notes of a polonaise were heard now, and the guests, 
grouping themselves in pairs, strode through the wide halls. A 
quadrille followed the polonaise, and it was a charming sight to 
see all these graceful women and young girls dance Irene kept 
up a cross-fire of words with the vicomte and Velletri. Talizac 
had just whispered some gallant sentence to her, when a high 
officer of the Royal Life Guards appeared and handed the vicomte 
his commission. 

Great enthusiasm arose. The vicomte and his parents were 
congratulated from all sides, and the young girls envied Irene, for 
it was an open secret that she would be the future Vicomtesse 
de Talizac. 

Arthur de Montferrand was the only one who could not force 
himself to congratulate the vicomte.' It was only on his father’s 
account that he came at all, and while Talizac was being sur- 
rounded on all sides, Arthur’s thoughts went back co the scene 
on the previous evening. He saw Louison’s pleading looks, he 
heard her contemptuous words, and could never forgive himself 
for having given her good reason to believe that he was one of 
Talizac’s accomplices. 

The vicomte’s voice aroused him from his dreams. 

“Well Arthur,” said Talizac laughing, “ have you no congrat- 
ulation for me ?” 

Arthur looked penetratingly at the vicomte, and in a low voice 
replied: 

“Vicomte, if I cannot discover any traces of the punish- 
ment you received yesterday on your cheeks, I hope to be able 
to pay up for what I have lost. For to-day you must excuse 
me.” 

Deathly pale, Talizac looked at Montferrand, but before he had 
a chance to reply, a commotion was heard in the corridor, fol- 
lowed by a war of words. 


76 


THE SON OF 3IONTE-CRISTO. 

The marquis looked uneasily at the door and was about to give 
an order to a servant to inquire after the cause of the disturb- 
ance, when the folding doors were thrown open and a man who 
carried the lifeless, dripping form of a young girl in his arms 
rushed into the ball-room. 

“ Fanfaro cried Montf errand in amazement. 

Fanfaro, for it was really he, laid the young girl’s body tender- 
ly upon the ground, and turning to the assembled guests, he 
cried with threatening voice: 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, here is the corpse of a young girl, 
'whom the Vicomte de Talizac murdered.” 

The women uttered cries of terror and the men looked threat- 
eningly at Talizac, who was trembling and trying hard to appear 
indifferent. 

The Marquis of Fougereuse was as white as a specter. Was 
this Fanfaro going to pursue him forever ? 

“ Who is the bold fellow?” he audaciously said, “ throw him 
out.” 

“ Don’t be go quick, marquis,” said Fanfaro earnestly; “ it is a 
question of a terrible crime, and your son the Vicomte de Talizac 
is the criminal! Oh, the shame of it! Does he think that be- 
cause he is a nobleman, he can do what he pleases? This young 
girl lived modestly and plainly; she was pure and innocent. The 
Vicomte de Talizac regarded her as his prey.^ He bribed a couple 
of scoundrels and had the poor child abducted. 

“Half crazed with horror and despairing of humanity, the vic- 
tim sought peace and forgetfulness in suicide. Marquis, do you 
know of any infamy equal to this?” 

Proud, with head erect like an avenger of innocence, Fanfaro 
stood in the center of the room and his eyes shot forth rays of 
contempt. 

Montferrand hurried toward him and cordially shook him by 
the hand. 

“ Is she dead — is she really dead ?” he asked. 

“ I fear so,” replied the young man, slowly, “ yet I do not likt? 
to give up all hope. Is there no lady here who will take care of 
the poor child and try to soften the vicomte’s crime ?” continued 
Fanfaro, raising his voice; “does not a heart beat under these 
silks and satins ?” 

From the group of timid ladies came a tall figure clad in a 
white silk dress, and kneeling next to Louison she softly said: 

“ Here I am.” 

' “ The farce is becoming uproarious,” cried the Marquis of Fou- 
gereuse, nervously laughing. 

“ Do not call it a farce, it is a drama, a terrible drama, my 
lord,” replied Fanfaro, earnestly. “ Ask your son, who is leaning 
pale and trembling against the wall, whether I am telling you 
the truth or not ?” 

“Yes, it is a lie!” exclaimed Talizac, hoarsely. 

“It is no lie,” declared Arthur de Montferrand, stepping in 
front of Talizac. “ Vicomte, you have a bad memory and if my 
hand had not fortunately stamped your face,you might have even 
denied it to my face. Look at the vicomte, gentlemen; the 


77 


THE SON OF MONTE^CPJSTO, 

traces which burn on his pale cheeks he owes to me, for I was 
present when he made the first attempt to scandalize this poor 
girl and I chastised him; he stabbed me.” 

“ He lies! He is crazy,” cried the vicomte, in despair. 

But none of those who had a quarter of an hour before over- 
whelmed him with congratulations condescended to look at the 
wretch, and with a moan Talizac sank back in a chair. 

In the meantime Irene had busied herself with Louison, and 
now triumphantly exclaimed: 

“ She lives, she breathes, she can still be saved! Mamma,” she 
said, turning quickly to her mother, ‘‘ we will take the poor 
child home with us and nurse her.” 

The countess assented with tears in her eyes; she was proud 
of her daughter. 

“ The poor thing is my sister,” said Fanfai’o in a low voice to 
Irene. 

Irene bent over Louison and kissed her. pale forehead. This 
was her answer to Fanfaro’s information. 

Talizac had now recovered his senses. He tore open the door 
and angrily cried: 

“Is there no one here who will show this impudent fellow 
out? Come in lackeys, and servants, lay hands on him!” 

“ I would advise no one to touch me,” said Fanfaro, coldly. 

At this moment a hand was laid on Fanfaro’s shoulder, and a 
deep voice said: 

“ In the name of the king, you are my prisoner!” 

As if struck by lightning, the young man gazed upon an okl 
man who wore a dark uniform with a white and gold scarf. All 
the entrances to the ball-room were occupied by soldiers, and Fan- 
faro saw at once that he was lost. 

“ My lord marquis,” said the officer, turning to the master of 
the house, ‘‘I regret very much to disturb you, but I must obey 
my order. Less than an hour ago a man with a knife in his hand 
entered the apartments of his majesty and said that he intended 
to kill the king.” 

A cry of horror followed these w'ords, and, pale and trembling, 
the guests crowded about the officer, who continued after a 
short pause: 

“ Asked after his accomplice, the murderer declared that he 
was an agent for a secret society, whose chief the prisoner Fan- 
faro is.” 

“Oh, what a monstrous lie!” exclaimed Fanfaro, beside him- 
self with rage, while Irene de Salves rose upright and with flam- 
ing eyes said : 

“ He a murderer? Impossible!” 

“Prudence,” whispered Arthur to the young woman, “what 
I can do for him I will.” 

“Save my sister, Irene,” said Fanfaro softly, and sorrowfully 
turning to the official, he declared with a loud voice: “Sir, I 
must deny the accusation that I am a murderer. I have openly 
fought against the present government, but have never em- 
ployed any assassin! Do your duty, I will follow you without 
resistance and calmly await the judge’s sentence.” 


78 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


With head erect Fanfaro strode toward the door and disap- 
peared in company with the soldiers. Montferrand approached 
Talizac and hissed in his ear: 

“ It might be doing you an honor, but if there is no other rem- 
edy I \vill fight a duel with you to rid the world of a scoundrel — 
1 await your seconds.” 

“You shall pay for this,” said the vicomte, “ I will kill you.” 

Half an hour later the splendid halls of tlie Fougereuse man- 
sion were deserted; the guests hurried to leave a house where 
such things had occurred. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN LEIGOUTTE. 

Like so many other places Leigoutte had risen from the ashes 
after the war was over. A great sensation was caused oue daj 
by the appearance in the village of ‘an old gray-headed man. 
He said he intended to erect a new building on tlie spot where 
the school and tavern house formerly stood. The old man paid 
without any haggling the price asked for the ground, and 
shortly afterward workmen were seen busily carting the ruins 
away and digging a foundation. 

The villagers thought a new and elegant house would replace 
the old one now, but they deceived themselves. Strange to say, 
the new building resembled the old one even to the smallest 
details. In the basement was the kitchen from which a door led 
to the low narrow tavern-room, and in the upper story were two 
bedrooms and the large schoolroom. 

When the house was finished, a sign half destroyed by fire was 
fastened to one end, and the peasants swore it was the sign of 
the former innkeeper, Jules Fougeres. In the right corner the 
words “ To the weT'are of France” could be clearly seen. 

The new owner did not live in the house himself. He gave it 
free of charge to the poorest family in the village, with the con- 
dition that he be allowed to live there a few weeks each year. A 
schoolmaster was soon found in the person of a former sergeant, 
and as Pierre Labarre, such was the name of the new owner, 
undertook to look out for the teacher’s salary, the inhabitants of 
Leigoutte had every reason to be thankful to him. When Pierre 
came to the village, which was generally in spring, the big and 
little ones surrounded him, and the old man would smile at the 
children, play with them, and assemble the parents at evening in 
the large tavern-room, and relate stories of the Revolution to 
them. 

He had come this spring to Leigoutte and the children glee- 
fully greeted him. On the evening of a March day he was sitt ing 
l^ensively at the window of the tavern, when he suddenly saw 
two curious figures coming up the road. One of the figures, 
apparently a young strong girl, had her arm slung about a bent 
old woman, who could hardly walk along, and had to be sup- 
ported by her companion. 

Pierre felt his heart painfully moved when he saw the two 


THE SON CF MONTE-CniSTO. 79 

women, and following an indefinable impulse, he left the room 
and seated himself on a bench in front of the house. 

The wanderers did not notice him. When they were opposite 
the house the old woman raised her head, and Pierre now saw a 
fearfully disfigured face. The woman whispered a few words 
to her companion; the 3 'oung girl nodded and began to walk in 
the direction of the school-house. The paralyzed woman climbed 
the few steps which led into the house, and walking along the 
corridor she entered the parlor. 

PieiTe could not sit still any more. He noiselessly arose and 
entered the corridor. The parlor door was wide open, and he 
saw the gi-ay-haired woman sitting at a table and looking all 
around her. Her small, fieshless lips parted, and half aloud she 
muttered : 

“Where can Jules be? The dinner has been ready a long 
time, the children are getting impatient, and still he does not 
come! Come here, Jacques, father will be here soon. Louison, 
do not cry or I shall scold! Ah, little fool, I did not mean it; be 
quiet, he will soon be here!” 

Pierre Labarre felt his heart stand still. The crippled, dis- 
figured woman who sat there could be none other than Louise, 
Jules’ wife! But who could her companion be? 

No longer able to control himself, lie softly entered the room. 
The young girl immediately perceived him, and folding her 
hands, she said, in a pleading tone; 

“ Do not get angry, sir! We shall not trouble you long.” 

“Make yourselves at home,” replied Pierre, cordially; “but 
tdl me,” he continued, “ who is this woman ?” 

Caillette, for she was the young woman, put her finger to her 
f(;rehead, and looked significantly at the old woman. 

“ She is crazy,” she whispered. 

Pierre Labarre laid his hand over his eyes to hide his tears, 
but he could not prevent a nervous sob from shaking his broad 
frame. 

“ Tell me,” he repeated softly, “ who is the woman ?” 

“ Ah! the poor woman has gone through a great deal of trou- 
ble,” replied Caillette, sorrowfully. “She has lost her husband 
and her children, and was badly injured at a fire. But a few 
weeks ago she could hardly move a limb, but since a short time 
her condition has wonderfully improved, and she can walk now, 
though not without assistance.” 

“ But her name — what is she called ?” 

“ Ah, my dear sir, I do not know her real name; the people 
who live in her neighborhood in Paris call her the ‘ Burned 
Woman,’ and Louison calls her mamma or mother.” 

“ Louison ? Who is that ?” 

“ A young girl who has taken care of her. She earns her living 
through singing, and is a charming girl. Her brother is named 
Fanfaro. Ah! it is a curious story, full of misfortune and 
crime.” 

PieiTe was silent for a moment, and then asked; 

“ Who is this Fanfaro whom you just spoke about?” 

Caillette did not answer immediately. Fanfaro was to her the 


80 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


incarnation of all that was good and noble in the world, but of 
course she could not tell the old man this.” 

‘•Fanfaro is a foundling,” she finally said; “of course he is a 
man now, and just as energetic and brave as any one.” 

“ Fanfaro, Fanfaro,” repeated the old man, pensively; “ where 
have I heard the name before ?” 

The maniac now raised her eyes, and, seeing Pierre, she po- 
litely said: 

“ Excuse the plain service, sir; it is very little, but comes from 
our hearts.” 

Pierre Labarre uttered a cry of astonishment. 

“Louise — Louise Fougere!” he cried, beside himself. 

The invalid looked sharply at Pierre, and tremblingly said: 

“ Who called me? Who pronounced my name just now ?” 

“ I, Lou is<i,” replied Pierre. “Louise Fougere, do you not 
recollect your husband, Jules, and your children, Jacques and 
Louison ?” 

“ Of course I remember them. Ah, how glad I would be if I 
could see them again! Where can Jules be? and Jacques — 
Jacques ” 

The maniac was silent, and ran her crippled fingers through 
her gray hair, as if she were trying to recollect something. 

“Yes, I know,” she murmured pensively, “Louison is here, 
she sleeps in a neat white bed, but she is away now — and — 
and ” 

Expectantly Pierre gazed at the poor woman, who was palpa- 
bly confounding imagination with reality, and after a pause she 
continued: 

“ Oh, the door opens now, and Jacques enters! Welcome, my 
dear child; how handsome you have become; thank God, I have 
you again!” 

“ Has she really found Jacques again ?” asked Labarre, trem- 
blingly; and, turning to Caillette, “ is he living?” 

“ Yes, he is the same person as Fanfaro.” 

“God be praised, and Louison?” 

“Louison has been abducted and ” 

“ A bducted ? By whom ?” 

“ By the Vicomte of Talizac.” 

“ By Talizac? Oh, my God!” stammered Labarre, in horror. 

Louise, too, had heard the name, and raising herself with diffi- 
culty, she whispered: 

“Talizac? He must know it! Jacques — the box, oh, God! 
where is the box?” 

******* 

How did these two women get to Leigoutte ? 

When Fanfaro went to search for Louison, his mother had re- 
mained behind under the protection of Caillette. The day 
passed, night came, but neither Fanfaro, Girdel nor Bobichel re- 
turned. The maniac screamed and cried. She w^anted to see 
Jacques and Caillette could hardly calm her. Finally long past 
midnight she fell into a slumber, and Caillette too, exhausted 
by the excitement of the last few hours, closed her eyes. 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CEIST0, 61 

When she awoke it was daylight. She glanced at the maniac’s 
bed. Merciful Heaven, it was empty! 

Trembling with fear, Caillette hurried down-stairs and asked 
the janitress whether she saw anything of the Burned Woman.” 
The janitress looked at her in amazement and said she had 
thought at once when she saw the old crippled woman creep- 
ing down the stairs two hours before, that all was not right in 
her head. 

“But she cannot walk at all, how could she get out?” 
groaned Caillette. 

“ Suppose Fanfaro came now and found out that his mother 
was gone ?” 

“ A milk- wagon stopped in front of the door,” said the jani- 
tress, “ and the driver let the old woman get in. I thought it 
had been arranged beforehand and was all right.” 

Caillette wrung her hands and then hurried to the station 
house and announced the disappearance of the ‘ ‘ Burned Woman .” 

If her father and Bobichel, even Fanfaro, had come, she would 
have felt at ease. But no one showed himself, and Cailette, who 
knew that Girdel and Fanfaro were wanted, did not dare to make 
any inquiries. 

She ran about in desperation. The only clew was the milk- 
man, but where could she find him ? Caillette. passed hours of 
dreadful anxiety, and when a ragpicker told her that he saw a 
woman who answered her description pass the Barriere d’ltalie 
on a milk-wagon, she thought him a messenger of God. 

As quick as she could go, she ran to the place designated; a 
hundred times on the way, she said to herself that the wagon 
must have gone on; and yet it struck like a clap of thunder 
when she found it was really so. What now ? Caillette asked 
from house to house; every one had seen the woman, but she 
had gone in a different direction; and so the poor child wan- 
dered onward, right and left, forward and backward, always 
hoping to discover them. Finally, after she had been thirty six 
hours on the way, she found the maniac in a little tavern on the 
roadside. She was crouching near the threshold, and smiled 
when she saw Caillette. 

“God be praised, I have found you,” cried the young girl, 
sobbing; and when the hostess, who had been standing in the 
background, heard these words, she joyfully said: 

“ I am glad I did not leave the poor woman go; she spoke so 
funny, I thought at once that she had run away from her 
family.” 

“What did she say?” asked Caillette, while the “Burned 
Woman ” clung to her. 

“ Oh, she asked for bread, and then inquired the way to the 
Vosges.’' 

“Yes, to the Vosges,” said the maniac, hastily. 

“But, mother, what should we do in the Vosges?’ asked 
Caillette, in surprise. 

“To Leigoutte — Leigoutte,’' repeated the maniac, urgently. 

“ Leigoutte -that is Fanfare’s home!” exclaimed the young 
girl, hastily. 


83 


THE SON OF M0NTE-CBI8T0. 


“Not Fanfaro — Jacques,” corrected the old woman. 

“But what should we do in Leigoutte, mother?” 

“ The box — Jacques — Talizac— the papers/' the woman re- 
plied. 

And so we find Caillette and her patient, after weary wander- 
ings, in Leigoutte. The young girl had sold, on the way, a gold 
cross, the only jewel she possessed, to pay the expenses of the 
journey. Charitable peasants had given the women short rides 
at times; kind-hearted farmers’ wives had offered them food and 
drink, or else a night’s lodging; yefc Caillette thanked God wlien 
she arrived at Leigoutte. What would happen now, she did not 
know. Nothing could induce the maniac to return, and tlie 
young girl thought it best not to oppose her wish. Little by 
little, she began to suspect herself that the journey might be 
important for Fanfaro ; who could tell what thoughts were 
agitating the mad woman’s brain; and, perhaps, the unexpected 
recovery of her son might have awakened recollections of the 
past. 

“I must speak to old Laison,” said the “ Burned Woman,’' 
suddenly; “he must help me.” 

She arose, shoved Caillette and Pierre aside, and hobbled to- 
ward the back door. Opening it, she reached the open field, 
and without looking around, she walked on and on. Pierre and 
Caillette followed her unnoticed: she had now reached the spot 
on which the old farm-house of Laison stood, and, looking timid- 
ly around her, she turned to the right. 

Suddenly she uttered a loud scream, and when Caillette and 
Pierre liurried in affright to her, they found the maniac deathly 
pale, leaning against a hollow tree, while her crippled fingers 
held a box, which she had apparently dug out of the earth, for 
close to the hollow tree was a deep hole, and the box was cov- 
ered with dirt and earth. 

“ There it is,’ she cried to Pierre, and from the eyes in which 
madness had shone before, reason now sparkled. “Jacques is 
not my son, but Vicomte de Talizac, and Louison is the Marquise 
of Fougereuse — here are the proofs.’’ 

She clutched a number of papers from the box and held them 
triumphantly uplifted; but then nature demanded her right, and, 
exhausted by the great excitement, she sank senseless into Cail- 
lette’s arms. 


CHAPTER XXL 

EXCITED. 

The street-singer was resting in the beautiful boudoir of the 
young countess, Irene de Salves. The poor child lay under 
lace covers, and Irene’s tenderness and attachment had banished 
her melancholy. 

After the terrible scene in the Fougereuse mansion, the young 
countess, with the help of Arthur, brough. Louison to a carriage, 
and, to Madame Ursula’s horror, she gave the young girl her 
own room and bed. For Fanfaro’s sister nothing could be good 


THE SON OF MONTE^CmSTO, ^'6 

enough, and the young comtesse made Louisonas comfortable as 
possible. 

After the young girl had rested a few hours, she felt much 
stronger, but with this feeling the recollection of what she had 
gone through returned, and, in a trembling voice, she asked 
Irene: 

Who saved me?’’ 

‘‘Don’t you know?” asked the countess, blushing, ‘‘It was 
Fanf aro. ” 

“ Fanf aro — who is that?” 

Irene looked at her in astonishment. Was it possible that 
Louison did not know her own brother, or had the excitement 
of the last days crazed her mind? 

“ Won’t you tell me who Fanfarois?” asked Louison, urgently. 

“Don’t you really know your own brother?” asked Irene in 
surprise. 

“My brother?” 

Louison laid her hand on her head and became thoughtful. 

“ I liad a brother once,” she said, pensively; “ he was a few 
3’ears older than me, and did everything to please me, but it is 
long ago since I saw Jacques — many, many years. 

“Jacques and Fanfaro are identical,” repled Irene, softly. She 
had been told this by her cousin Arthur, who took a great in- 
terest in the brother and sister. 

“ Fanfaro, repeated Louison, pensively, “ah! now I know 
who this man is. He belongs to a company of acrobats who give 
performances in the Place d.u Chateau d’Eau. They have all 
such peculiar names. One of them is named Firejaws ” 

“ Perfectly right; he is Fanfare’s foster-father, and Fanfaro is 
your brother,” 

' “ Who told you so ?” 

‘ He, himself; he begged me to care for his sister,” 

“ But why does he not come? I long to see him.” 

Irene, too, longed to see Fanfaro. 

“ Let me speak a little about him,” said Louison, vivaciously; 
“ perhaps Fanfaro is identical with Jacques; he must be twenty 
years of age." 

“ That may be so.” 

“And then he must be very handsome; Jacques was a very 
pretty boy." 

“ That is correct, too,” replied Irene, blushing, 

“ Has he black eyes and dark, curly hair ?” 

“I think so,” stammered Irene, who knew all these details, 
yet did not wish to confess it. 

“ You think so,” repeated Louison; “ you haven’t looked care- 
fully at him ?” 

“ I— I — ,” stammered the countess, in confusion; “what do you 
look at me for ?” 

A smile flitted across Louison’s lips, but she kept silent, and 
Irene thanked God, as Madame Ursula now came in and softly 
said: 

“Irene, a word.” 

“ What is the matter?” asked the countess, hastily, 


84 


THE SON OF MOXTE-CBISTO. 


There is a man outside who would like to speak to you.” 

His name ?” 

* ‘ Bobichel ” 

“Bobichel, ah! bring him in the next room directly!” 

Madame Ursula nodded and disappeared, while Irene turned 
to Louison and said in explanation : 

“ Excuse me a moment; I will not leave you long alone.” 

She went to the next room, where Bobichel was already 
awaiting her. He did not look as jolly as usual, and, twirling 
his cap between his fingers in an embarrassed way, he began: 

“Mademoiselle, excuse me for disturbing you, but ” 

“ You come from him— from Fanfaro?” said Irene, blushing. 

“Unfortunately no, ’ replied Bobichel, sorrowfully; “I was 
not allowed to see him.” 

“ Who sent you here ?” 

“His foster-father— Girdel.” 

“ Why does he not come personally ?” 

“ I do not know. I have something to give you.” 

“What is it?” 

“ Here it is,” said Bobichel, pulling a small package out of his 
pocket and handing it to Irene. 

The young countess hastily unfolded the package. It con- 
tained two letters, one of which was addressed to “ Mademoi- 
selle Irene,” while the other bore, in clear, firm letters, her full 
name, “ Countess Irene de Salves.” 

Without accounting for her feelings, Irene feverishly broke 
the last letter. Did she suspect from whom it came ? 

“Countess, you are brave and noble!” wrote Fanfaro, “and 
therefore 1 dare to ask you to take care of my sister, whom I 
barely rescued from deatli. The hour is near at hand in which 
my sentence will be pronounced. You have never doubted me, 
and I thank you from the bottom of my heart! 1 have fought 
for the rights of humanity, and I hope at some future time to 
be enrolled among those to whom riglit is preferable to material 
things. One thing, however, I know now; a powerful enemy 
pursues me with his hatred, and if the sentence should turn out 
differently from what this enemy expects, he will find tfie 
means to make me harmless. I therefore say farewell to you — 
if forever, who can say? Irene, do not despair; eternal heavenly 
justice stands above human passions, but if I should succumb, I 
will die peacefully, knowing that my mother and my sisttjr will 
not be deserted.” 

The letter bore no signature. Irene read again and again 
the words of her beloved, a/id hot tears fell on the paper. 

Bobichel, deeply affected, observed the young girl, and to con- 
sole her, he said; 

“ Who knows, he niight not be found guilty anyhow?” 

“Who are you talking of? Who will be found guilty?” came 
from a frightened voice behind Irene, and as the latter hastily 
turned around, she saw Louison, who, enveloped in a soft shawl, 
and pale as a specter, stood in the doorway. 

“Louison, how did you get here?” cried Irene, beside her- 


THE EON OF MONTE-CRIETO, 85 

self. ‘‘Oh, God! T am neglecting you. Quick, go to your room 
again; you shall know all to-morrow.” 

“Sister,” whispered Louison, softly, “why do you wish to 
conceal something from me which I already know? Tell me 
what has happened to Fanfaro ? I know danger threatens him, 
and two can bear the heaviest burden easier than one.” 

“ Yes, you are right.” replied Irene, embracing Louison, and 
gently leading her to her room, she sat down beside her and 
hastily told her what she knew about the conspiracy and the 
part Fanfaro took in it. Bobichel put in a word here and there, 
and when Irene had finished he said with a smile: 

“ Mademoiselle, in your eagerness to read one of the letters 
you forgot to open the other.” 

“ That’s so!” exclaimed Irene blushing, and unfolding Girdel’s 
letter she read the folio wing words, written in an original ortho- 
graphical style: 

“ "We must reskue Fanfaro and this is only posibel in one way. 
You have great inflooence, try to make the thing whicli Popi- 
chel will give you all right, but not until after the trial, which 
will take place in two days. I trust in you. Girdel.” 

“What answer shall I bring, master !” asked the clown after 
Irene had read the letter. 

“ That I will do as he says,” replied Irene. “ Where is the thing 
Gird el intrusted to you ?” 

“ Here,” said Bobichel, handing the young lady a pin with a 
pretty large head, and as Irene amazed and inquiringly looked 
at him, he quickly tore off the head and showed her a small hol- 
low in which a note lay. 

“You see, mademoiselle,” he laughingly said, “prestidigita- 
tion is sometimes of use; and now good-bye. I will tell master 
that he struck the right person.” 

He disappeared, and the two young girls looked after him 
filled with new hope. 

From the time that the old Countess of Salves had informed 
the Marquis of Fougereuse that under existing circumstances a 
marriage between her daughter and the Vicomte de Talizac was 
out of the question, violent scenes had taken place in the Fou- 
gereuse mansion. 

Financial ruin could now hardly be averted, and, far from 
accusing her son of being the cause of this shipwreck of her plans, 
Madeleine placed the blame entirely on her husband. It 
was already whispered in court circles that the newly appoint- 
ed captain in the Life Guards and Knight of St. Louis would 
lose his new position, and though the other young noblemen 
were no better than the vicomte, they had the advantage that 
this was not universally known. 

The marquis and Madeleine had just been having a quarrel, 
and the marquis, pale and exhausted, lay back in his chair, when 
Count Fernando de Velletri was announced. The marquis 
bathed his face and forehead in cold water, and ordered the 
Italian to be sent up. He attached great importance to this 


86 


THE SON OF MONTE-GRISTO. 


visit, for Simon had told him that Velletri was a member of the 
Society of Jesus, and a man of great influence. 

Velletri entered and his appearance was so different from 
what it ordinarily was that the marquis looked at him in amaze- 
ment. He wore a long black coat, a black cravat, and a 
round hat of the same color. These things marked Velletri at 
once as a member of an ecclesiastical society. The dark cropped 
hair lay thick at the temples, and his eyes were cast down. The 
Italian was inch by inch a typical Jesuit, and his sharp look 
made the marquis tremble. He knew Loyola’s pupils and 
their “ energy.” 

Velletri bowed slightly to the marquis, and then said in a cold 
voice; 

“ Marquis I begged for an interview with you which I desire 
principally for your own good. Are we undisturbed here?” 

“ Entirely so,” replied the marquis, coldly. 

The Italian sat down in a chair which the marquis had shoved 
him, and began in a tone of business: 

Marquis, it is probably not unknown to you that the conduct 
of your son, the Vicomte de Talizac, compromises his own posi- 
tion and that of his family. I ” 

“But, count,” interrupted the marquis vivaciously, “you 
were the chum of my son, and you even encouraged his dissipa- 
tions.” 

Velletri laughed maliciously. 

“ The Vicomte of Talizac,” he said, weighing each word, “ is 
no child any more, and not influenced either in a bad or good 
way by any of his companions. If I have apparently taken part 
in his dissipations, it was in the first place to prevent something 
worse and to shield the honor of the Fougereuse, which was 
often at stake.” ’ 

“ You, count — but I really do not understand,” stammered the 
marquis. 

“ It seems to me/’ interrupted the Italian, sharply, “ that we 
are swerving from the real object of our interview; let me 
speak, marquis. A powerful society, with whom I have the 
honor of being associated, has had its eye on you for a long 
time. Your influence, your opinions and your family connec- 
tions are such, that the society hopes to have in you a useful 
auxiliary, and I have therefore received the order to make ar- 
rangements with you. The society ” 

“You are no doubt speaking of the Society of Jesus?” inter- 
rupted the marquis. 

Velletri bowed and continued: 

“ Thanks to the assistance of the pious fathers, his majesty 
has foregone his original intention of stripping the Vicomte de 
Talizac of all his honors ” 

The marquis made a gesture of astonishment, and Villetri 
went on : 

“The society is even ready to give you the means to put your 
shattered position on a Arm basis again.” 

“And the conditions?” stammered Fougereuse hoarsely. 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CEIST0. 87 

“ I will tell them to you directly, they are not very difficult to 
fulfill.” 

“ And should I refuse them?” 

“ Do you really intend to refuse them ?” asked the Jesuit, softly. 

Fougereuse bit his lips; he had ah-eady said too much. The 
Jesuit was a worthy pupil of his master, and the marquis felt 
that should he oppose him he would be the loser. 

“ What does tlie society ask of me?” he said, after a pause. 

“ Two things — an important service and a guarantee.” 

“ And what does it offer ?” 

The position of his majesty the king’s prime minister. 

The marquis sprang up as if electrified. 

I have misunderstood you,” he said. 

‘‘ Not at all, it is a question of the premiership.” 

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the marquis’ forehead; 
he knew the society had the power to keep its promises. Prime 
minister! Never in his dreams had he even thought so high. 
The position guaranteed to him riches, influence and power. 

“ You spoke of an important service and a guarantee,” he said, 
breathing heavily; “ please explain yourself more clearly.” 

will first speak of the service,” replied Velletri, calmly; 
“ it is of such a nature that the one intrusted with it can be 
thankful, for he will be able to do a great deal of good to His 
Holiness the Pope and the Catholic world.” 

Fougereuse closed his eyes — this outlook was dazzling. 

Fernando de Velletri continued with: 

“ Marquis, you are no doubt aware that the Jesuits have been 
expelled from France under the law of 1764. About two years 
ago, in January 1822, his majesty the king allowed them to stay 
temporarily in his kingdom. The good prince did not dare at 
that time to do more for us. The^time has now come to put an 
end to the oppression under which the Jesuits have so long suf- 
fered. What we desire is the solemn restoration of all their 
rights to the fathers. They should hold up their heads under 
their true names and enjoy anew all their former privileges. To 
secure this end we must have a law, not a royal edict, a sound 
constitutional, law, which must be passed by the Chamber of 
Peers. It is a bold undertaking, and we do not deceive ourselves 
with regard to the difficulties to be encountered, and the man 
who does it must be quick and energetic, but the reward is a 
magnificent one. The man we shall elevate to the prime minis- 
tership will be in possession of great power. Marquis, do you 
think you have the necessary strength to be this man ?” 

Fougereuse had arisen. Excited, flushed with enthusiasm, he 
looked at Velletri. 

‘‘Yes, I am the man!” he firmly exclaimed, “1 will easily 
overcome every obstacle, conquer every opposition ” 

“ With our assistance,” added the Jesuit. “ We are already in 
possession of a respectable minority, and it will be easy for you, 
with the aid of promises and shrewd insinuations, to win over 
those who are on the fence. Marquis, the work intrusted to you 
is a sublime one ” 


88 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CBIST0. 


“I am yours body and soul,” interrupted the marquis im- 
patiently. “ And to-day ” 

“One moment,” said the Jesuit, placing his hand lightly on 
the marquis shoulder; “ I also spoke about a guarantee.” 

“Really,” cried Fougereuse sincerely, “1 forgot all about 
that, but I should think my word of honor would be suf- 
ficient. 

Velletri did not reply to his last observation, but coolly said: 

“ The man in whom the society places such entire confidence 
as to give him the weapons which must lead to victory, must be 
bound to us by ties which cannot be torn asunder.” > 

The marquis’ face expressed naive astonishment. 

“The strongest chains,” continued the Jesuit, “are, as is 
well known the golden ones, and the guarantee we desire is based 
on this fact. Marquis, I am the secretary of the general of the 
order, and it is my mission to ask you whether you are ready to 
assist the society ftnancially by founding new colonies such as 
the Montrouge and Saint- Acheul houses in Parma and Tus- 
cany ?” 

“Certainly,” stammered Fougereuse, “I am ready to help 
the Society of Jesus to the extent of my means, and should like 
to know beforehand how high the sum is that is required. My 
finances are at present exhausted and ” 

“Have no fear” interrupted Velletri dryly; ‘ the sum in 
question is not so immense that you need be frightened about it.” 

Fourgeruse breathed more freely. 

“ To found the houses named only a very modest sum is nec- 
essary, not more than a million!” 

“A million!” stammered the marquis, “ a million!” 

“ The sum is very small in comparison to the office you buy 
with it, and only the particular friendship our order had for 
you caused it to give you the preference, to the exclusion of 
numerous applicants.’^ 

“ But a million!” groaned Fougereuse,” the sum is impossible 
to secure! If I were to sell or pawn everything, I would not 
succeed in raising a quarter of this sum.” 

“Then you refuse?” asked Velletri. 

“ God forbid, only I do not know how I shall satisfy the de- 
mand of the society. A million is under circumstances a ter- 
rible sum !” 

“Marquis, the house of Fougeruse possesses a fortune 
which is fabulous in comparison to the demands of the society.” 

“If it were only so,” groaned Fougereuse, “but unfort- 
unately you are mistaken, I am ruined, totally ruined!” 

“ Impossible! The fortune your father left behind him was 
too immense to have been spent in a few years! No matter what 
your embarrassments previously were, the fortune must have 
been sufficient to cover them and enrich you enormously be- 
sides!” replied Velletri. 

“Count, I was robbed of my legacy — dastardly robbed,” 
whined Fougereuse. 

The Italian rose up angrily. 

“Marquis/’ said he, “lam not- used to bargaining and hag- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


89 


gUng. I ask you for the last time, what is your decision? I 
oifer you peace or war. Peace means for you power and influ- 
ence, while war ” 

“ War ?’^ repeated Fouge reuse, confused. “I — do not under- 
stand you!” 

“ Then I will express myself more clearly. When the society 
reposes its confidence in a man like you and discloses its most 
secret plans, it always has a weapon in the background, to be 
used in a case of necessity. A comrade sometimes becomes an 
opponent ” 

‘‘ I — should I ever become an enemy of the fathers ? Oh, you 
do not believe that yourself!” 

“Our measures are such that it cannot be done very easily, 
anyhow,” replied Velletri, with faint malice; “this is ourulti 
matum: Either you accept my proposition and hand over the 
sum named within five days, or one of our emissaries will place 
certain papers in the hands of the district attorney!” 

Fougereuse trembled with fear and Lis teeth chattered as he 
stammeringly said: 

“I — do not — ^understand — you.” 

“Then listen. The papers are drafts whose signatures have 
been forged by the Vicomte de Talizac, and which are in our 
hands.” 

“Drafts? Forged drafts? Impossible— my son is not a 
criminal!” cried the marquis, desperately. 

“ Ask the vicomte,” replied Velletri, coldly, and rising, he 
added: “Marquis, I give you time to consider. As soon as you 
have made up your mind, please be so kind as to let me know.” 

“ One moment, count. Are your conditions unchangeable?” 

“ Perfectly so. Inside of the next five days the preliminary 
steps must be taken in the Chamber of Peers ” 

“ I will do them to-morrow,” cried the marquis, hastily. 

“ But only in case you are able to give the necessary guarantee. 
Marquis, adieu!” 

The Italian went away, and Fougereuse, entirely broken down, 
remained behind. 

He was still sitting thinking deeply, when Simon, who had re- 
mained behind the curtain and overheard the interview, softly 
stepped forth, and said: 

“ Courage, marquis; there is no reason for despair. Write to 
the pious fathers that you will satisfy their demands within the 
required five days.” 

“ But I do not understand ” 

“ And yet it is very clear, Fanfaro is in prison ” 

“ Even so — he will not be condemned to death.” 

“ If the judges do not kill him, there are other means.” 

“ Other means ?” 

“Yes, my lord; the legacy of the Fougereuse will fall into 
your hands, and then the cabinet position is sure.” 

“ Simon, are you mad?” 

“No, my lord. I will kill Fanfaro!” 


90 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE TRIAL. 

Political trials are in all ages similar; and then, as now 
the verdict is given long before the proceedings have begun. 

It was only after Fanfaro had been brought to the court-room 
that he caught a glimpse of the man who liad allowed himself to 
be used as a tool to set the assassination of the king in motion. A 
contemptuous smile played about the young man’s lips when 
he saw it was Robeckal. The wretch looked like the personifi- 
cation of fear; his knees quaked together, his face was covered 
with cold perspiration, and his teeth chattered audibly. 

Robeckal had been still half intoxicated when he undertook to 
carry out Simon’s proposition to play the regicide. Not until 
now, when he found himself in the presence of his judges, had he 
comprehended that it might cost him his head, and his bold as- 
surance gave way to cowardly despair. 

Fanfaro answered the questions put to him briefly and clearly. 
He described Robeckal’s actions during the time he had been a 
member of Girdel’s troupe. He declared that the wretch had 
cut the chain in Sainte-Ame for the purpose of killing the athlete, 
and said everything in such a passionless way, that the judges 
became convinced that he was speaking the truth. As soon as 
the indictment had been read, the proceedings began. Robec- 
kal whiningly declared that he bitterly regretted what he had 
done He had been seduced by Fanfaro, and would give his 
right hand if he could blot out the recollection of the attempted 
assassination. 

“Thanks be to God, that Providence protected our king!” he 
concluded, bursting into tears, the presence of which were 
even a surprise to himself, . while a murmur of sympathy ran 
through the court-room. He certainly deserved a light pun- 
ishment, poor fellow, and 

Now came Fanfare’s turn. 

“ You are a member of a secret society which bears the proud 
title of ‘ Heroes of Justice ?” asked the presiding judge. 

“ I am a Frenchman,” replied Fanfaro, “and as such I joined 
with the men who desire to free their country.” 

“And to do this, you attempted assassination?” asked the 
judge, sharply. 

“I am not an assassin,” replied the young man, coldly; 
“ these men who negotiated with foreign powers to cut 
France in pieces for the sake of conquering a crown sunk in 
mud, have more right to the title.” 

“ Bravo!” came from the rear of the hall, and then a terrible 
tumult arose. With the help of t)ie policemen, several dozen men 
were hustled out of the room, while the man who had uttered 
the cry was let alone. It was Girdel, who wore the dress of a 
lackey, and consequently aroused no suspicion. 

Irene de Salves was also one of the spectators. Her sparkling 
eyes were directed at Fanfaro, and whenever he spoke, a look 
of pride shone in them. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 


91 


When quiet had been restored, the judge turned once more to 
Fanfaro. He asked him to tell everything he knew about the 
attempt, and shook his head when the young man declared on 
his honor that he was the victim of a conspiracy. 

“ My father,’’ Fanfaro concluded, “ fell in defense of his coun- 
try, and it would be a bad way of honoring his memory, were I 
to stain his name with the shame of regicide.” 

Fanfare’s defender was a very able lawyer, but he was shut 
up in the middle of his speech, and when he protested he was 
forced to leave the courtroom. 

Fifteen minutes later the verdict was given. Robeckal was 
condemned to death by strangulation, and Fanfaro to the galleys 
for life. 

But at the moment the sentence was pronounced a terrible 
thing occurred. 

Fanfaro arose, opened his mouth as if he wished to speak, 
stretched out his arms, turned around in a circle, and then fell 
heavily to the floor! 

Loud cries broke forth. 

“ He has committed suicide,” some cried. 

He has been poisoned,” came from others, and all rushed 
toward the unconscious man. 

Irene de Salves had hurried toward Girdel, she wished to ask 
him a question, but when she finally reached the place where 
she had seen the athlete he had disappeared. All attempts at 
recovery remained fruitless, and Fanfaro was carried off. Ro- 
beckal, too, was almost dead from fright. The sentence came 
upon him like a stroke of lightning. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE CRISIS. 

‘'At last,” cried the Marquis of Fougereuse, when he heard 
of Fanfaro’s sudden death, and in great good humor he went in 
search of his wife. 

“ Madeleine!” he exclaimed, “ all our troubles are at an end 
now; he who stood between us and fortune is dead.” 

" Of whom are you speaking ?” 

“ Of whom else but that common regicide.” 

“ What, of that Fanfaro who lately had the audacity to come 
into our parlor, and create that terrible scene ?” 

“ Of him — he is. dead.” 

“ Heaven be praised. We shall now receive the legacy.” 

“ Without a doubt. All that is now necessary is to get Girdel 
to speak, and that can be easily arranged. He has only to repeat 
before witnesses, what he told me already.” 

“ I had hardly dared to hope any more that this dream would 
be realized,” said Madeleine. “ The cabinet position is now sure, 
and our son has a brilliant future before him. Where is Fred- 
eric staying? he has been gone already several hours.” 

The marquis paid no attention to Madeleine’s last words. He 
was thinking about Simon and the great service the latter had 
done for him. 


92 


THE SON OF M0NTE-CRI8T0. 


Where can Simon be ?” he uneasily remarked, “I have not 
seen him in two days.” 

“ Bah, he wilJ turn up, let us rather speak about our son. I ” 

A knock was heard at the door. 

“ Come in,” said the marquis expectantly, but instead of Si- 
mon, as he thought, a servant entered. 

“ My lord,” be stammered, “ the vicomte ” 

“ Ah, he is outside!” cried the marquise eagerly; tell the vi- 
comte we are awaiting him.” 

Saying which she advanced toward the door. The servant, 
however, prevented her from opening it, and placing his hand 
on the knob, he hesitatingly said : 

“ Madame— I ” 

‘ What do you mean ?” cried the marquise, angrily. “You 
announce the vicomte, and lock the door instead of opening it?” 

“ My lord,” said the servant, turning to the marquis. 

The expression of the man's face was such that the nobleman 
felt his heart stand still with terror, and in a faint voice he 
stammered: 

“ Madeleine, let Baptiste speak.” 

“The— vicomte — is dead,” stammered Baptiste. 

A cry of despair came from tlie marquise’s lips, while the un- 
fortunate father looked at the messenger in a daze. He did not 
seem to know what was the matter. 

But soon the terrible significance of the words was made clear 
to him. Heavy steps were heard in the corridor. They ceased 
at the door, and now — now four men entered the parlor and laid 
a burden they were carrying gently on the fioor. The burden 
was a bier, covered with cloth, under which could be seen the 
outlines of a human face. 

Neither the marquis nor Madeleine had the courage to raise 
the cover. In a daze they both stared at the bier and tlie pall- 
bearers, and only when Gaston de Ferrette, Talizac’s friend, step- 
ped in the threshold of the door did life return to the unhappy 
parents. 

“Gaston, what has happened ?” cried the marquis in despair, 
as he imploringly held his hand toward the young man. 

“He is dead,” replied Gaston, in a hollow voice. 

“ Who is dead ? For Heaven’s sake speak!” moaned Madeleine. 

“ Your son, the Vicomte de Talisac, fell in a duel,” said Gas- 
ton, earnestly. 

Madeleine uttered a loud cry and sank unconscious to the floor. 
While Baptiste and the marquise’s maid hurried to her assist- 
ance. Fougereuse gazed vacantly before him, and then raising his 
head, he passionately exclaimed: 

“You lie — my son had no duel!” 

“Would to God you were right, marquis,” replied Gaston, 
sorrowfully; “ unfortunately it is the truth. The vicomte and 
Arthur de Montferrand fought a duel, and the sword of the lat- 
ter ran through Talizac’s heart!” 

The marquis still remained unconvinced, and carefully gliding 
toward the bier, he shoved the cloth aside with a trembling 
hand. 


THE SON OF MONTE^CBISTO. 


93 


Yes, it was his son who lay on the bier. The pale face was 
stiff and cold. The eyes were glassy and on the breast was a 
deep red wound. 

The marquis uttered a hoarse cry and his hand nervously 
grasped the cloth. His eyes shone feverislily and he stammered 
forth disconnected sentences. 

Gaston de Ferrette consoled the unhappy father, but his words 
made no impression, and as Madeleine had in the meantime been 
brought back to consciousness by her maid, Gaston thought it 
best to go away for the present. 

He softly strode to the door, but he had hardly reached it when 
the marquis sprang up, and laying his hand heavily on the 
young man’s shoulder, he said: 

“ Do not leave this room. I must know how he died.” 

A wink from Gaston sent the servants away, and as soon as he 
was alone with the parents he began his story. 

“The vicomte sent his seconds to Artliur de Montferrand,” he 
said; “ the motives of the duel were to be kept secret by both 
combatants,' and I of course had nothing to say to this. The 
meeting was agreed upon for this morning and took place in the 
Bois de Boulogne. When the vicomte arrived on the spot, he 
was so terribly excited that the seconds thought it their duty to 
ask for a postponement of the affair. This proposition was 
agreed to by Monsieur de Montferrand, but the vicomte firmly 
opposed it. We tried in vain to change his determination. He 
became an^y, accused his seconds of cowardice, and threatened 
to horsewhip them. Under such circumstances nothing could 
be done. The distance was measured off and the duel began. 
The vicomte was already lost after the first tourney. In his pas- 
sion he ran upon his opponeiit’s sword, the blade of which pene- 
trated his heart, and death immediately followed.” 

Pale, with eyes wide open, the marquis and Madeleine listened 
to Gaston’s story. The marquise clinched her fist and angrily 
exclaimed: 

“ My son has been murdered, and I will avenge him!” 

The marquis remained silent, but his silence made a deeper im- 
pression on the young man than Madeleine’s anger. 

“ Did my son leave any letter?” asked the marquise, suddenly. 

“ Yes, my lady. Before we rode to the Bois de Boulogne tlie 
vicomte gave me a sealed letter, which I was to give to his 
parents in case of his death.” 

The young man thereupon handed the marquise the letter. 
Madeleine tore the envelope with a trembling hand. There were 
only a few lines: 

“ You have brought me up badly. You are the cause of my 
death. I hate you!” 

A terrible laugh, the laugh of madness, came from the mar- 
quise’s breast, and rushing upon her husband, she held the paper 
before his eyes. 

‘‘ Head,” she cried, ‘‘read these words, which our only child 
sends us from his grave. He hates us — ha, ha, ha — hates — hates!” 

The cup of sorrow causod the marquise to become uncon^ciovis 


THE SON OF 310NTE-CItIST0. 


U 

.again, and this time Gaston ordered the servants to take her 
away. Madeleine was carried to her bedroom, and Gaston, who 
saw the marquis kneeling at his son’s bier, noiselessly went 
away. 

Hardly had he left the room, when the door was slowly open- 
ed and a gray-haired nian entered. He saw the grief -stricken 
father beside his son’s corpse, and an expression of deep sympa- 
thy crossed his stony face. Softly walking behind the marquis, 
he laid his hand upon his shoulder. Fougereuse looked up and 
an expression of dumb terror appeared on his features, while he 
tremblingly murmured: 

“ PieiTe Labarre!” 

Yes, it was really Pierre Labarre who had accompanied Cail- 
lette and Louise to Paris, and had heard there that Fanfare's 
trial had begun. As soon as he could he hurried to the Court- 
house and heard there what had happened. Several physicians 
stood about the so suddenly deceased young man, and they de- 
clared that death was brought about by the bursting of a vein. 

Crushed and annihilated Pierre Labarre hurried to the Fou- 
gereuse mansion, and the marquis trembled at sight of him, as 
if he were a specter. 

“ Pierre Labarre,” he cried in a hollow voice, “you come to 
gloat over my grief. Ah, you can triumph now, I know you 
are glad at my misfortune. Get out!” he suddenly exclaimed in 
angry tones, “get out, 1 have nothing to do with you!” 

“But I have with you, marquis,” replied Pierre calmly. “I 
have something to tell you, and you will listen to me!” 

“Aha, have you finally become reasonable?” mockingly laugh- 
ed the marquis. “ Now'you will no longer dare to prevent me 
from claiming my rights or dispute my legal title.” 

“No,” rephed Pierre, sorrowfully; “the real Vicomte de Tali- 
zac is dead, and from to-day on you are for me the Marquis of 
Fougereuse.” 

“I do not understand you,” said the marquis, confused. 

“ What has the death of my son got to do with my title?” 

“ I do not speak of the son who lies here a corpse, but from the 
other ” 

“Which other?” asked the nobleman, more and more sur- 
prised. 

“You will soon understand me — it is about Fanfaro ” 

“ Ah, I could have thought so; to his death I owe the fact that 
Pierre Labarre calls me the Marquis of Fougereuse, and that now 
that no one is living to whom he can give the hidden millions, he 
must necessarily deliver them up to me!” 

With a mixture of surprise and horror Pierre looked at the 
man, who could still think of money and money matters in the 
presence of his dead son. 

“Why do you not speak?” continued the marquis, mockingly. 

“ You are, no doubt, sorrowful at the death of Fanfaro, whom 
you imagine to be the legitimate heir of the Fougereuse? Yes, I 
cannot help you; gone is gone, and if it interests you, you can 
learn how Fanfaro came to his death — I killed him!” 

“ Impossible — do not say that,” cried Pierre Labarre in terror, 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 95 

*‘Say that it was a joke, my lord, or a misunderstanding — you 
did not kill him?” 

“ And why not?” asked the nobleman. “Yes, I got rid of 
him; I hired the murderer, who freed me of him! Ha! ha! ha! 
I knew who Fanfaro was— I recognized him immediately on ac- 
count of his resemblance to my father and my brother, and as 
he stood in my way, I got rid of hiip by means of poison! What 
are you staring at ? I really believe you are getting childish in 
your old age!” 

Pale as a ghost, Pierre leaned against the wall, and his hand 
wa& clasped over his eyes, as if he wished to shut the marquis 
out of his sight. 

“ Unhappy father,” he murmured, in a broken voice; “ would 
to God somebody took the duty off of my hands to tell you 
what you have done.” 

“Spare your pity,” said Fougereuse, proudly; “if anything 
can console me for the death of my son, it is the knowledge tliat 
my brother Jules’ son, who was always a thorn in my side, is at 
last out of the way.” 

“For Heaven’s "sake be silent: this Fanfaro was not your 
brother’s son !” 

“So much the worse!” 

“ My lord, in the presence of this corpse which lies before us, 

I beseech you do not blaspheme, and listen to what I have to 
say. Do you recollect the village of Sachemont?” 

Sachemont?” repeated Fougereuse, pensively. 

“Yes — Sachemont. On the 16th of May, 1804, you and 
another officer took lodgings in the cottage .of a peasant in 
Sachemont. You were running away from France. You had 
taken part in Cadoudal’s conspiracy, and barely escaped from 
the hands of the officers of the law. The peasant received you 
hospitably, and, in return, the wretches insulted their host’s 
daughters. One of the officers, a German, was repulsed by the 
young girl he had impudently approached, but the other one, a 
Frenchman, took advantage of the other sister, and after com- 
mitting the dastardly outrage, he ran away with his companion. 
Marquis, shall I name you the man who acted so meanly ? It 
was the then Vicomte de Talizac!” 

Fougereuse looked at the old servant in amazement. Where 
had Pierre Labarre found all this out? 

“ The nobleman left the cottage like a thief in the night, and 
left behind him despair and shame,” continued Pierre, “and 
this despair increased when the unhappy victim of the Vicomte 
de Talizac gave birth to a son, about the commencement of the 
year 1805 ” 

“Go on! What else?” asked Fougereuse, mockingly, as 
Pierre paused. 

“The unhappy girl died, and the child, which had neither 
father nor mother, stood alone in the world,” said the old man 
softly; “it would have died wretchedly if a brave and noble man 
had not made good the misfortune another caused. Jules de 
Fougereuse, the brother of the Vicomte de Talizac, married under 
the name of Jules Fougeres the sister of the dead womau, and 


96 


THE SON OF MONTE-GRISTO. 


both of them took care of the child. They brought the boy up 
as if he had been their own, and in the village of Leigoutte no 
one suspected that little Jacques was only an adopted child. In 
the year 1814 you induced the Cossacks to destroy Leigoutte. 
Jules Fougeres, your only brother, die dthe deatli of a hero, and if 
the wife and children of the victim did not get burned to death, 
as was intended, it was not the fault of the instigator of the 
bloody drama.” 

This time the nobleman did not reply mockingly — pale and 
trembling he gazed at Pierre Labarre, and cold drops of i)erspi- 
ration stood on his forehead. 

“ My information is at an end,” said the old man, now, as he 
advanced a step nearer to the nobleman; “ Fanfaro and Jacques 
Fougeres are identical with the Vicomte de Talizac’s son.” 

“It is a lie,” hissed Fougereuse, “this Fanfaro was my 
brother’s son; tell your fables to others.” 

Instead of answering, Pierre Labarre searched in his breast 
pocket and handed the marquis a package of papers. With 
trembling hands Fougereuse opened the ones on top and tried to 
read, but a veil was before his eyes and he tremblingly said: 

“ Read them, Pierre, I cannot see anything.” 

Pierre read the following aloud: 

“ I, Jules de Fougereuse, eldest son of the marquis of the same 
name, swear that the child, Jacques Fougere, which is supposed 
to be my own and bears the name of Fougeres, which I at pres- 
ent answer to, is not my son, but the son of my sister-in law 
Therese Leraaire, and my brother, the Vicomte de Talizac. 

“Jules Fougeres.” 

“ Those words have been written by some unmitigated liar,’ 
cried the marquis. “Pierre Labarre, say thatit is not true, or 
else — I must have poisoned my own son!” 

“V/ould to God I could say no,” replied Pierre, shuddering, 
“but I cannot! Fanfaro was your son — his blood lies on your 
head!” 

“ No! no!” cried the marquis, pale as death; “his blood will 
not fall upon me, but upon the devil who led me to do the das- 
tardly deed.” 

“ His name ?” asked Pierre. 

“ Is Simon — my steward! He advised me to poison Fanfaro 
so that I could force you to give up the legacy. I acceded to 
his proposition, and he committed the deed.” 

Pierre looked contemptuously at the coward who did not hes- 
itate to throw the responsibility of the terrible deed on his serv- 
ant. 

“ I am going now,” he said, coldly. “ I have nothing more to 
do here.” 

“No, remain — do not leave me alone with the dead — I am 
frightened,” whined the marquis. 

“I must go— I want to look after your other dead son,” re- 
plied Pierre. 

“ Ah, take me along! Let me see him, let me beg forgiveness 


THE SON OF MONTEHRISTO. 97 

of the corpse against which I have sinned so,” implored the 
broken-down man. 

Pierre thought for awhile, and then said earnestly: 

“ Come then — you are right.” 

“Thanks, a thousand thanks! But tell me, Pierre, what will 
become of the fortune you have in safe keeping; it exists yet, I 
hope ?” 

Labarre trembled with contemptuous rage; the man before 
him was more mercenary and wicked than he thought could be 
possible. He buried both his sons almost at the same hour, but 
he still found time and opportunity to inquire about the legacy 
for which he had made so many sacrifices. 

“ Well,” exclaimed Fougereuse impatiently, ‘‘ tell me, where 
are the millions of my father ?” 

“ In a safe place,” replied Pierre dryly. 

“ God be praised! I could draw a million then tliis evening ?” 

“ My God, marquis! do you need a million to confess your 
sins ?” 

“ Later! Later! Now answer me, when can I get the million?” 

“To-morrow; the documents and bonds are deposited with a 
lawyer here.” 

“ So much the better.” 

The marquis hurried to his writing-table, wrote a few lines and 
rang. 

“ Here, this note must be brought at once to Count Fernando 
de Velletri,” he said to Baptiste. “ Wait for an answer and bring 
it at once to me; you will find me in the court-house.” 

While the servant was hurrying away, the marquis hastily put 
on a cloak, and left the house with Labarre. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE AUTOPSY. 

In a house opposite the court-house, which stood at the corner 
of a street which has long since disappeared, were two men who 
were earnestly conversing. 

“ Doctor,” said one of them, “ you guarantee a success ?” 

“ Have no fear, I have often made such experiments and 
always with success. I haven't grown gray in the service of 
science for nothing. I know what I am speaking about.” 

“ But the long time,” said the other anxiously. “You know 
we can only operate at night, and forty hours are sometimes an 
eternity.” 

“ Before I entered upon the plan I weighed eveiy thing care- 
fully,” said the physician earnestly; “otherwise I should not 
have taken the responsibility. Have confidence in me; what my 
knowledge and care can do" will be done to bring everything to 
a good end.” 

The other man shook the physician’s hand heartily. 

“ Thank you, faithful friend,” he cordially said. “ I wish I 
could stop tlie uneasy beating of my heart, but I suppose it is 
only natural that I am anxious.” 

“ That’s it exactly,” replied the doctor, “ and to quiet you I will 


THE SON OF 3IONTE-CEISTO. 


stay herefrom now on until the decisive hour. Good-bye, I must 
go. You know where I am to be found.” 

The doctor went, while the other man struck his face with 
his hands and softly murmured: 

“ God grant that he be right. I would rather die a thousand 
deaths than lose the dear boy in this way.” 

Hot tears ran over the man’s brown cheeks, and his broad 
breast rose and fell, torn by convulsive sobs. 

“ Shame yourself, Firejawsl” he murmured, ‘‘ if any one saw 
you now I Let us hope everything will be all right, and 
then ” 

A loud knock at the door interrupted Girdel’s self-conversa- 
tion, and upon a hasty “ Come in,” Bobichel entered the room. 

“Well, Bobi, how goes it?” asked the athlete. 

“ She is down-stairs,” said the clown, with a significant gest- 
ure. 

Without asking another question, Girdel hurried out, while 
Bobiciiel looked observantly around the room, and soon found a 
well-filled bottle of wine and a glass; he filled the glass and 
emptied it with one swallow. 

In the meantime Girdel had met Irene de Salves in the corri- 
dor of the house. 

The young lady wore a black dress, and when she saw the 
athlete she ran to meet him and sobbingly cried: 

“ He’s not dead, is he?” 

“No, he is not dead,” confirmed Girdel, and seeing Irenes 
pale face, he said more to himself: “I knew how the news 
would work, and yet it could not be helped — as God pleases, it 
will all be right again.” 

“ But where is he?” asked Irene anxiously. 

“Countess,” began the athlete, somewhat embaiTassed, “at 
present he is a corpse on a bier and whoever sees him thinks he 
is dead, but to-morrow at this time he will be well and at 
liberty.” 

“ Ah, if I could only believe it 

“ You can do so,” cried Girdel, hastily; “ if I had not thought 
you were more courageous than women in general, I would 
have kept silent, but I thought to myself you were in despair, 
and I therefore concluded to speak.” 

“ A thousand thanks for your confidence, but tell me every- 
thing that has happened — 1 can hardly understand the whole 
thing.” 

“ I believe you. If you were to accompany me to the cellar 
now you will see one of the chief actors in the drama. Down- 
stairs in a cage lies a wild beast which we have captured. I 
just want to call Bobichel and give him a message, then I will 
accompany you down-stairs.” ^ 

A low whistle from the athlete brought the clcnvn directly to 
him, and Girdel ordered him to slip into the court-house and 
watch what occurred there. He then accompanied Irene iiito 
the damp cellar. Lighting a pocket lantern and holding it 
aloft, he said: 

“ Follow me, countess, we will soon be there,” 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CRIST0. 


09 

The countess followed her guide without hesitation; she had 
perfect confidence in Girdel, and after a short journey they both 
stood in front of a heavy iron door. 

“ Here we are,” said the athlete, triumphantly; and taking an 
iron bar which stood in a corner in his hand, he cried in sten- 
torian tones: 

“Get up, scoundrel, let us look at you!” 

Low moans answered the gruff command, and Irene uttered a 
cry of terror, for in the cell a human form moved. 

“ Step nearer, mademoiselle,” said Girdel, putting on the 
manners of a circus proprietor;” the wild beast is pretty tame i 
now — we have taken out its teeth and chained it.” 

“ But I do not understand ” stammered Irene. 

“ Who this beast is ? You shall know it at once; the magnifi- 
cent personage is Sin) on, the factotum of the Marquis Fougereuse. 
In his leisure hours the miserable wretch occupies himself with 
poisoning experiments, and it would not be a loss to humanity 
if he should never see daylight again. Come, boy, play your 
tricks; the performance begins.” 

“ Mercy,” whispered Simon, for he was really the prisoner, 
“let me free.” 

“ Really ? Perhaps later on, but now you must obey. Quick, 
tell us what brought you here.” 

“ I am hungry,” growled Simon. 

“Really? Well, if you answer my questions probably you 
shall Lave food and drink. Why did you want to poison Fan- 
faro ?” 

“ I do not know,” stammered the steward. 

“ How bad your memory is. What interest did your master, 
.the Marquis of Fougijreuse, have in Fanfare’s death ?” 

Simon was silent. Girdel nudged him gently in the ribs with 
the iron bar, and turning to Irene, said: 

“Would you believe, mademoiselle, that this fellow was very 
talkative a few days ago when he tried to bribe Fanfare’s jailer. 
Growl away, it is true any way! You promised fabulous sums 
to the jailer if he would mix a small white powder in Fanfare's 
eating. Fortunately I have eyes and ears everywhere, so I iin - 
mediately took my measures. With Bobichel’s assistance, I 
captured this monster here, and then I went to the bribed jailer 
and gave him, in the name of his employer, the white powder. 
He took it without any resistance. That I had changed the 
powder in the meantime for another he was unaware of. If I 
only knew,” he concluded with a frown, “what object this 
marquis has to injure Fanfaro. This beast won’t talk, and ” 

“ Let me speak to him,” said the countess, softly. And turn- 
ing the grating, she urged Simon to confess his master’s motives 
and tliereby free himself. At first Simon looked uneasily at the 
young girl; he made an attempt to speak, but reconsidered it 
and closed his lips. 

“ Let us leave him alone, mademoiselle,” said Girdel; “ solitude 
will do him good.” 

When Simon saw that Girdel and Irene were about to depart, 
he groaned loudly, but the ath'^^ ^ ^dered him to keep still if he 


100 THE SON OF IIONTE-CIUSTO, 

did not wish to be gagged, and this -warning had the desired 
effect. 

When Girdel and Irene reached the room, the latter sank, sob- 
bing, upon a chair, and ‘‘the brave athlete ” tried his best to 
console her. 

“It will be all right,” he assured her; “Fanfaro has swallowed 
a strong narcotic which makes him appear as if dead. To-mor- 
row he will be buried, we shall dig him up again and then bring 
him away as soon as possible.” 

At this moment Bobichel breathlessly rushed into the room, 
and Irene uttered a cry of terror, when she saw his pale face. 

“What has happened?” she cried, filled with gloomy forebod- 
ings. 

“Oh, God — he is lost,” stammered the clown. 

“Who is lost?” 

“ Fanfaro.” 

“ Speak clearly,” cried Girdel, beside himself. 

“Tney have brought — Fanfaro — to the — Hotel Dieu,” said 
Bobichel, sobbing. 

“ Well, that isn’t such a misfortune,” said the athlete, breath- 
ing more freely. “ You need not have frightened us.” 

“ But the worst is to come — they want to hold an autopsy over 
him to find out the cause of death.” 

“ Merciful God — that must not be,” cried Irene, wringing her 
hands. “ We must run to the hospital and tell all.” 

“ Who is the physician that is going to undertake the autopsy ?” 
asked Girdel. 

“ Doctor Albaret, as I was informed.” 

“ Then rely on me, countess,” cried the athlete, rushing aw^ay; 
“ either I rescue Fanfaro or else I die with him.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS. 

Bobichel unfortunately had not said too much. The fact 
that Fanfaro had dropped dead so suddenly had caused great 
excitement in the scientific world, and Dr. Albaret, the 
king’s private physician, w^as the first to prof ose the autopsy. 
His colleagues immediately consented, and Fanfaro was at once 
brought to the Hotel Dieu and placed upon the marble table in 
the anatomy room. The attendants busily rushed here and 
there, and while they brought in the necessary instruments, 
lances, needles, knives, saws and bandages, numerous disciples 
of Esculapius stood about the dead man and admired his beauti- 
ful proportions and strong muscles. 

“ He could have lived to a hundred years,” said the physician, 
as he beat Fanfare’s breast, and his colleagues agreed with him. 
Fanfaro lay like a marble statue upon the table; the dark 
locks covered the pale forehead, and a painful expression lay 
over the firmly closed lips. Did the poor fellow suspect that he 
would become a victim of science and be delivered over to the 
knife ? 

In the meantime the hall had become crowded, and when Dr, 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 101 

Albaret appeared a murmur of expectation ran through the ranks 
of the students and physicians. 

Dr. Albaret, a sturdy old man, bowed to all sides, and 
hastily taking off his coat he took the dissecting knife in his 
hand and began to speak: “Gentlemen ! a death so sudden as 
this in a person apparently in the best of health demands the 
attention of all physicians, and I hope that we will be able to 
discover the cause of this surprising phenomenon. There are 
different ways of beginning an autopsy such as this. The 
German professors, for instance, make a cut from the chin to the 
pit of the stomach, the Italians from the under- lip to the breast- 
bone, while the French ” 

“Dr, Albaret,” cried a stentorian voice at this moment — 
“where is Dr. Albaret V” 

The physician frowned, he did not like such interruptions, 
but when he saw that the man who was hurriedly pressing 
through the rows of listeners, wore the livery of a royal lackey, 
his face became clear again. 

“ A message from his majesty the king,” said the man breath- 
lessly. 

“A message from his majesty?” repeated the physician 
eagerly, as he grasped the note the messenger gave him. 

Hurriedly running over the few lines, Albaret nodded, and 
quickly putting his coat on again, he said, in a tone of im- 
portance: 

“ Gentlemen, much to my regret I must leave you; an urgent 
matter requires my immediate attendance at the Tuileries, and 
I shall go there directly.” 

“ But the autopsy ?” remarked an elderly colleague. 

It isn’t worth the trouble to postpone it,” replied Albaret, in- 
differently; “ let the pooi-^fellow, who is stone-dead, be buried. 
Death undoubtedly was produced by the bursting of a blood 
vessel in the brain, and the excitement under which the 
deceased was laboring proves this very clearly. Adieu, gentle- 
men, next time we shall make up for what we have lost 
now.” 

He hurried out. In the corridor he was stopped by the super- 
intendent of the hospital, who asked him to put his signature 
under the burial certificate. Albaret signed it standing, got into 
the carriage which was waiting at the door,and rode rapidly away, 
while the royal servant, who was no other than Gird el, ran in an 
opposite direction, and took off his livery in a little house where 
Bobichel was awaiting him. 

“ Bobi, just in time,” he breathlessly cried, “ five minutes more 
and Fan faro would have been done for.” 

Girdel’s further arrangements were made with the utmost pru- 
dence. Irene de Salves had given him unlimited credit, and 
the well-known proverb that a golden key opens all doors, was 
conclusively proved in this particular case. The man whose 
duty it was to bury those who died in the Ilotel Dieu had, for a 
good round sum, consented to allow Girdel to do his work, and 
so the athlete had nothing else to do than to clothe himself ap- 
propriateljr and hurry^ back to the hospital? 


102 


THE SON OF 310NTE-CBIST0. 


The superintendent had just ordered the hearse to be put in 
readiness, when the Marquis of Fougereuse was announced. On 
the upper corner of the visiting card was a peculiar mark, and 
hardly had he seen it than he hurried to meet the marquis. 

The" nobleman leaned on Pierre Labarre’s arm, and returning 
the superintendent's greeting, he tried to speak, but his voice 
was broken by sobs, and so he handed the official a folded paper, 
and looked inquiringly at him. 

Hardly had the official read the paper, than he respectfully 
observed that the marquis’s wish would be complied with, and 
that he would give the necessary orders at once. 

The note contained an order from the Minister of Justice, to 
hand over to the Marquis of Fougereuse the body of Fanfaro; 
thus it will be seen that the marquis’ present of a million to the 
Society of Jesus had already borne fruit, and Pierre Labarre felt 
his anger diminish when he saw for what purpose the marquis 
had demanded the money. He no longer thought of the cabinet 
position, he had bought the right with his million to have the 
son who had never stood near to him in life buried in the Fou- 
gereuse family vault. 

I should like— to see — the deceased,” stammered the broken- 
down father. 

The official bowed, and accompanied his guide up to the 
operating room where Fanfare’s body still lay. 

The marquis sank on his knees beside the dead man, and 
murmured a silent prayer; how different was the son who had 
fallen in a duel, to the brother whom the father had sacrificed 
for him. 

“Marquis, shall I call the carriers?*’ asked Pierre, gently. 

The nobleman nodded, and soon Fanfaro’s body was laid upon 
a bier, which was carried to the Fougereuse mansion by four 
men The marquis and Pierre followed the procession with un- 
covered heads; when they arrived at the Fougereuse mansion, 
Fanfaro was laid beside his brother, and the marquis then said: 

“There is only one thing left for me — I must bury my sons 
and then die myself.” 

“ But Madame la Marquise,” said Pierre, anxiously. 

“The marquise will have the same wish as I have to suffer 
for our sins,’ said the marquis, frowniug; “ and ” 

At this moment Baptiste rushed into the room, and with a 
frightened look exclaimed: 

“Madame la Marquise is nowhere to be seen, and her maid 
fears she has done herself an injury— she was talking so funny.” 

Pierre and the marquis exchanged a silent look, and then the 
nobleman gently said : 

“ She did right — of what further use was she in the world — 
oh, I envy her!” 

* ^ ic ^ * 

Girdel and Bobichel waited almost a full hour at the rear 
* entrance of the Hotel Dieu. The athlete finally became impa- 
tient, he went inside of the house and asked if the body wasn’t 
going to be put in the hearse. 

“I really forgot all about it,” cxied the superintendent to 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


103 


whom Girdel had gone for information. ‘‘ The body has been 
taken away long ago.” 

“Taken away?” repeated the athlete, astonished. 

“Yes, the Marquis of Fougereuse claimed him and took him 
along; I believe he intends to bury him in his family vault.” 

“Almighty God — is that true?” asked Girdel, horror-stricken. 

“Yes, certainly; he brought carriers along, and that settled 
the matter.” 

“Where is the family vault of the Fougereuse?” asked Girdel. 

“ Oh, far from Paris, somewhere in Alsace if I remember 
aright.” 

“ God have mercy on me,” muttered Girdel to himself. 

The official looked at him with amazement: what was the 
matter with the man ? 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MISTAKEN. 

Before Robeckal had consented to play the part of a regicide, 
he had made his conditions, and not before they were accepted, 
had he undertaken the job. He had been told that he would be 
condemned to death /orma, and set free at the right moment. 
He would then be given an amount necessary for him to go to 
England or America and live there. 

Notwithstanding these promises Robeckal felt a cold shudder 
run down his back when he heard the death sentence, and when 
he was taken back to jail again he impatiently awaited further 
developments. He thought it very strange that he should be 
left to his fate, and when hour after hour had passed and neither 
Simon nor any one else came to his cell, he began to feel serious- 
ly uneasy. 

Suppose they no longer remembered the compact? 

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the wretch’s forehead, and 
his hands clinched nervously as these thoughts ran through his 
mind, and he tried to banish them. No, that must not be done 
to him. The rescue must come — he had not committed the fatal 
act for nothing. At last, the heavy iron door swung open, and 
Vidocq, the great detective, entered his cell. Robeckal knew him, 
and breathed more freely. Vidocq, no doubt, came to release him. 

“ Thank God you have come, Monsieur Vidocq,” cried Robeckal * 
to the official; “ the time was becoming rather long for me.” 

“I am sorry that I have kept you waiting,” replied Vidocq, 
quietly; “ but there were certain formalities to be settled, and 

“Ah! no doubt, in regard to the money?” said Robeckal, 
laughing. “Have you brought the yellow birds along?” 

“ Slowly, slowly — first let me inform you that the death sen- 
tence has been torn up.” 

“ Really? I did not expect anything else.” 

“ You do not say so,” observed the official, ironically. “Then 
you already know your fate ?” 

“ Yes, I am going to England, and from there to America.” 


104 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


“ I don’t know anything about that; my information is that 
you will not leave France.” 

Robeckal’s face became a shade paler, still he did not lose 
courage, 

“ Where am I to be sent ?” he hastily asked. 

“ For the present to the south of France.” 

“To — the — south — of — France,” repeated Robeckal. 

“ To Toulon!” 

“To Toulon ?” cried the wretch, in teiTor; “ that is impossi- 
ble!” 

“And why should it be impossible?” asked Vidocq, smiling 
maliciously. " 

“Because — because,” stammered Robeckal, faintly, “ the sen- 
tence ” 

“ Was death by strangulation. Thanks to the efforts of your 
friends, it has been commuted to the galleys for life, and I think 
you ought to be satisfied with the change.” 

“But — the — promise?” whined the criminal. “But, come, 
now, you are only joking?” 

“ I "never joke,” said the detective, earnestly; “besides, you 
must have been very innocent to imagine any one would make 
a compact with a scoundrel like you. It would be a crime 
against society to allow you to continue your bad course. No, 
thank God, the judges in France know their duty.” 

With these words, Vidocq beckoned to four muscular men to 
enter the cell. They seized Robeckal and put handcuffs and 
chains on him, in spite of his cries and entreaties. As the 
wretch continued to shout louder, a gag was put in his mouth, 
and in less than a quarter of an hour he was on the way to Tou- 
lon, which place he never left alive. 


CHAPTER XXVTI. 

FREEDOM. 

In a poor fisherman’s cottage in Havre a young man was 
walking up and down in feverish uneasiness. From time to 
time he looked through the window which opened onto the sea. 
The waves ran high, the wind whistled, while dark clouds rolled 
over the starless sky. 

A slight knock was now heard at the door of the cottage. 

“ Who is there ?” asked the young man, anxiously. 

“ We are looking for Fanfaro,” came from the outside, and, 
when the man hastily shoved back the bolt, two slim female 
forms, enveloped in dark cloaks, crossed the threshold. 

Before the young man had time to greet the strangers, another 
knock was heard, and upon the question, “ Who is there?” the 
answer came this time, in a soft, trembling voice: 

“We have been sent here to find Fanfaro.” 

“ Come in,” cried the yoimg man, eagerly; and two more 
female forms entered the cottage. One of them was yoimg and 
strong; the other, old, gray-haired and broken-down, clung to 
her comxDanion, who almost carried her. 

They all looked silently at each other; finally, one of those 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


105 


who had first entered let her cloak, the hood of which she wore 
over her head, sink down, and, turning to the young’ man, she 
vivaciously said: 

“ Arthur, have you sent me this invitation?” 

With these words, she handed Arthur de Montferrand, for he 
was the young man, the following note: 

“ Whoever wants to see Fanfaro once more, should come to 
the fisherman’s cottage of Antoine Michel, in Havre, on the 18th 
day of March.” 

‘‘I received a similar invitation,” said Arthur. ‘‘I was told, 
at the same time, to come in the afternoon ; to answer any 
inquiries that might be made; and to see that no stranger be 
admitted. Who invited us here, I do not know; but I think we 
shall not be kept waiting long for an explanation.” 

As God pleases, this hope may be confirmed,” replied Irene 
de Salves, and turning to her companion who was softly sobbing, 
she whispered consolingly to her: “ Courage, Louison, you will 
soon embrace your brother.” 

The two other women were Caillette and Louise; the latter 
looked vacantly before her; and all of Louison’s caresses were of 
no avail to cheer her. 

“ Jacques— where is Jacques?” she incessantly repeated, and 
the fact that Louison was really her daughter seemed to have 
entirely escaped her. 

Arthur de Montferrand never turned his eyes from the girl 
for whose honor he had fought so bravely, and every time Loui- 
son looked up she met the eyes of the young nobleman. 

A sky-rocket now shot up in the dark sky; it exploded aloft 
with a loud noise, and a golden rain lit up the horizon for 
awhile. 

“That was undoubtedly a good sign,” thought Arthur, hastily 
opening the cottage door. 

Loud oar-sounds were now heard, and a light boat struck for 
the shore with the rapidity of an arrow. 

The keel now struck the sand and a slim form sprang quickly 
out of the bark and hurried toward the cottage. 

“Fanfaro!” joyously exclaimed the inmates of the cottage, 
and the young man who had been rescued from the grave was 
soon surrounded on all sides. He, however, had eyt^s alone for 
the broken-down old woman who clung to Caillette in great 
excitement and gently implored: 

“ Jacques — where is Jacques? I do not see him!” 

“Here I am, my poor dear mother,” sobbed Fanfaro, sinking 
on his knees in front of the old lady. 

With trembling hands she caressed his hair, pressed her lips 
upon her son’s forehead, and then sank, with a smile, to the 
floor. Death had released her from her sufferings after she had 
been permitted to enjoy the last, and, to her, highest earthly 

joy- 

******* 

Here Fanfare’s story ended. Girdel knew something to add 
to it after Fanfaro had closed. He and Bobichel had succeeded 


106 


THE SON OF 3IONTE-CEISTO,] 

in overtaking the funeral cortege which the marquis and Pierre 
Labarre conducted to the family vault. In a few words Pierre 
was informed of the condition of things, and as the marquis had 
become thoroughly exhausted, the faithful old servant had 
undertaken to bring Fanfare’s body to a place of safety. Girdel 
had been prudent enough to take the physician who had given 
him the narcotic along, and soon Fanfaro opened his eyes. 

As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, Pierre told him, in 
short outlines, who he was. The young man listened with deep 
emotion to the story, and then he sw ore a sacred oath that he 
would never call another man father than the one who had 
taken pity on him, the helpless child; the Marquis of Fougereuse 
had no right to him, and he would rather have died than touch 
a penny of his money. No power on earth could induce him to 
have anything to do with the marquis. He would leave France, 
and try to forget, in a foreign country, what he had suffered. 

That very night Fanfaro traveled, in company with his sister, 
Girdel, Bobichel, and Caillette, to Algiers. Before the ship 
liftetl anchor, Fanfaro had received from Irene’s lips the promise 
that she would become his wife. Her mother’s life hung on a 
thread, and as long as she remained on earth the daughter 
could not think of leaving her. 

The old countess died about six months afterward, and as 
soon as Irene had arranged her affairs, she prepared herself for 
the journey to Africa. 

She was not surprised when Arthur offered to accompany her. 
She was aware that a powerful magnet in the person of Louison 
attracted him across the ocean, and when the young nobleman 
landed in France again, after the lapse of a few months, he was 
accompanied by a handsome young wife, wdiom the old mar- 
quis of Montferrand warmly welcomed to the home of his 
fathers — for was she not a scion of the house of Fougereuse, and 
the sole heiress of all the property of that family ? Louison’s 
uncle, the Marquis Jean de Fougereuse, had ended his dreary life 
shortly after the Vicomte de Talizac’s death, and it was not 
difficult for Arthur with Pierre Labarre’s assistance to maintain 
Louison’s claims as the daughter of Jules de Fougereuse and sole 
heiress of the legacy. Of course, the Society of Jesus was much 
put out by the sudden apparition of an heiress, for it had hoped 
to come into possession of the millions some day. 

Bobichel had become Caillette’s husband; and though the 
handsome wife did not conceal the fact from him that not he, 
but Fanfaro, had been her first love, the supremely happy 
clown was satisfied. He knew Caillette was good to him and 
that he had no ground any more to be jealous of Irene’s hus- 
band. 

The life which the colonists led in Africa was full of dangers, 
but had also its pleasures and joys, and through Louison and her 
husband they remained in connection with their fatherland, 
whose children they remained in spite of everything. 

* "X* # * * # * x- 

At the end of a week Spero had entirely recovered, and the 
count prepared to depart for France, Before he parted from his 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


107 


kind host, he turned to Fanfare and begged him in a solemn tone 
to stand by his son with his assistance and advice, should he 
ever need them, and Fanfaro cheerfully complied with his re- 
quest. 

“ Rely on my word,” he said, as the little caravan was about 
to start. “The son of the Count of Mon te-Cristo is under the 
protection of all of us, and if he should ever call us to his assist- 
ance. v/hether by day or night, we shall obey the call!” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

BENEDETTO’S REVENGE. 

A Letter of the Ccnint of Monte-Cristp to his son, Vicomte Spero* 

“My Dearly Beloved Son, — To-day is the anniversary of 
your rescue from the hands of that terrible Maldar, and although 
twelve years have passed since then, I still feel the effects of the 
fright I sustained. Thanks to faithful friends, you were saved 
to us; God bless them for it, and give you and me an opportu- 
nity to repay them for what they have done for us. 

“ In regard to myself this opportunity must come soon, for I 
have passed my sixtieth year, and my strength is failing. 

“ Yes, my dear Spero, your father, who was to you the incarna- 
tion of energy, is now only a broken-down man; since my poor 
wife died, all is over with the Count of Monte-Cristo. Five years, 
five long years, have passed since your dear mother breathed her 
last in my arms, and I, who never wept before, have cried like 
a child. How insignificant, how feeble I thought myself when 
I saw the cheeks of my dear wife become paler day by day, and 
her beautiful eyes lose their sparkle. What good was all the 
art and science I had learned from the Abbe Faria to me if I could 
not rescue her ? Like avenging spirits the shades of all those 
upon whom I had taken revenge rose up before me; Villefort, 
Danglars, Morcerf, Benedetto, Maldar, had all been overcome 
by me, but death was stronger than I am — it took her from me! 

“ My blood, my life, I would have given for that of your mother 
but it was all of no use, death would not give up its prey. At 
that time, my dear son, you were sixteen years old. Your tears 
mingled with mine and you cried out in deep grief; ‘Ah, mother, 
if I could only die for you!’ 

“ Spero, do you know what it is to feel that a person has de- 
ceived himself. I spent my life to carry out what I thought to 
be right, the punishment of wrong-doers and the rewarding of 
those who do good. I was all-powerful as long as it was a ques- 
tion of punishing the guilty, but as weak and feeble as a child 
when I attempted to make good the wrong I did in an excess of 
zeal, and all my tears and entreaties were of no avail. 

“What good did it do that I rescued Albert, the son of the 
Countess Mercedes, from the murderous fiames of Uargla ? Two 
years later he was shot in the coup d^eiat of December, and his 
mother died of a broken heart. 

“ Maximilian Morrel and. Valentine de Villefort met an early 


108 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


and a fearful death — they fell victims to the insurrection of the 
Sepoys in India, in the year 1859. 

“ You inherited from you3‘ mother everything that is good, 
noble, and sublioie; from me a thirst for knowledge, energy, and 
activity. Would to God I could say that you did not also inherit 
my arrogance, my venomous arrogance. Spero, by the time you 
receive this letter, I shall be far away; yes, I am going away, 
and voluntarily place upon myself the heaviest burden, but it 
must be. 

“Will you be able to understand me and my motives? Ah, 
Spero, I cannot help domineering over those about me, and that 
is why I am going. 

“ So long as you are at my side, you are not yourself. You 
look at life with my eyes, you judge according to my ideas, 
and my opinion is decisive for you in everything you" do and 
think. 

“ You do not regard me as a man but as a supernatural being. 
Far from me you will learn the meaning of responsibility for 
one’s acts, and if not now, later on, you will be grateful to me 
for this temporary separation. 

“ Spero, I have furnished you with the best weapons for the 
struggle of life, and it is about time that you take up youi* arms 
and begin your first battle with life. 

“ You are now twenty-one years of age. You are brave and 
courageous, and will not shrink from any obslacle. You are 
rich, you have knowledge — now it must be seen whether you 
possess the will which guarantees success. 

“ Your path is smooth — no enemy threatens you, and a crowd 
of friends stand at your side. I have never had a real friend. 
Those who acted as such were either servants or poor people, 
and only those who are situated similarly and think aHke can 
understand the blessings of friendship. 

“My son! give generously, believe in humanity, and do 
not distrust any one; real experience is gained only by mis- 
takes. 

“ Murder is the worst crime, for it can never be made good again. 
From the old servants, I shall only leave Coucou with you. He is 
devoted to you and loves you enthusiastically. The brave Zouave 
will yearn for me, but console him by telling him I have gone for 
your good and tell yourself the same thing, should you feel like- 
wise. With best love, 

“Your Father.” 


CHAPTEE XXVIII. 

SPERO. 

The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo was a wonderfully handsome 
man. The grace of his mother and the stalwart build of liis 
father were united in him. His dark hair fell in wavy locks over 
his high white forehead, and the long eyelashes lay like veils 
upon his cheeks. 

The young man’s surroundings were in every particular 
arranged with consummate taste. The vicomte had inherited 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


109 


from his parents a taste for Oriental things, and his study looked 
like a costly tent, while his bedroom was furnished with the 
simplicity of a convent cell. The Count of Monte-Cristo had 
taught his son to be strict to himself and not become effeminate 
in any way. Nice pictures and statues were in the parlors, the 
bookcase was filled with selected volumes and he spent many 
hours each day in serious studies. Spero was a master in all phys- 
ical accomplishments. His father’s iron muscles were his legacy, 
and the count often proudly thought that his son, in case of 
need, would also have found the means 'and the way to escape 
from the Chateau d’lf. 

The vicomte sat at his writing-desk and was reading his father’s 
letter when Coucou eutered. The Zouave had changed some- 
what. He DO loDger wore a uniform or the little cap of a Jack- 
al but changed them for a dark brown overcoat. His eyes, how- 
ever, still sparkled as merry as ever, and Coucou could laugh as 
hearty as ever. 

“When did the count leave the house?” asked Spero, whose 
voice reminded one of his fathers. 

“ This evening, vicomte,” replied Coucou, with military 
briefness. 

“ Why was I not called ?” 

“ The count forbade it. He ordered me to place the letter 
which you found on the writing-table and ” 

“ Did the count go alone ?” 

“No, Ali accompanied him.” 

“ In what direction did he go?” 

“Ido not know. I was called to the count at two o’clock 
this morning, and after I had received the letter, I went away.” 

“ Without asking any questions?” 

“Oh, vicomte, no one asks the Count of Monte-Cristo for a 
reason,” cried Coucou, vivaciously. “I am not a coward, 
but ” 

“ I know you possess courage,” replied the young man. 

Sapristi — there, now, I have allowed myself to go again. I 
know that my way of speaking displeases you, vicomte, and I 
will try next time to do better.” 

“ What makes you think that your language displ(?ases me?” 
asked Spero, laughing. 

“ Because — excuse me, vicomte, but sometimes you look so 
stern ” 

“Nonsense,” interrupted Spero; “I may sometimes look 
troubled, but certainly not stern, and I beg you not to speak dif- 
ferently than as you were taught — speak to me as you do to my 
father.” 

“Ah, it is easy to speak to the count,” said Coucou, unthink- 
ingly, “ he has such a cheering smile-r — ” 

A frown passed over SperO’s face, and he gently said: 

“My father is good — he is much better than I am — I have 
known it long ago.” 

“Vicomte, I did not say that,” cried the Zouave, embarrassed. 

“ No, but you thought so, and were perfectly right, my dear 


no THE SON OF MONTHCBISTO. 

Auguste; if you wish to have me for a friend, always tell the 
truth.” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Coucou, ‘‘ and now I have a special favor to 
ask you, vicomte.” 

“ Speak, it is already granted.” 

‘‘Vicomte, the count never calls me Auguste, which is my 
baptismal name, but Coucou. If you would call me Coucou, 
I ” 

“ With pleasure. Well, then, Coucou, you know nothing 
further ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

‘* It is good. You can go.” 

The Zouave turned toward the door; when he had nearly 
reached it, Spero cried: 

“ Coucou, stay a moment.” 

“Just as you say, vicomte.” 

“ I only wished to beg you again,” said Spero, in a low, trem- 
bling voice, “ not to think me stern or ungrateful. I shall never 
forget that it was you who accompanied my father and me 
to Africa, and that you placed your own life in danger to rescue 
mine.” 

“ Ah, vicomte,” stammered the Zouave, deeply moved, “that 
was only my duty.” 

“That a good many would have shirked this duty, and that 
you did not, is why I thank you still to-day. Give me your 
hand in token of our friendship. Now we are good friends again, 
are we not ?” 

With tears in his laughing eyes, Coucou laid his big brown 
hand in the delicate hand of the vicomte. The latter cordially 
shook it, and was almost frightened, when the Zouave uttered a 
faint cry and hastily withdrew his fingers. 

“ What is the matter with you ?” asked Spero, in amazement. 

“Oh, nothing, but ” 

“ Well, but ” 

“ You see, vicomte, my hand is almost crushed, and because 
I was not prepared for it, I gave a slight cry. Who would have 
thought that such a fine, white, delicate hand could give you a 
squeeze like a piston-rod V” 

Spero locked wonderingly at his hands, and then dreamily 
said: 

“ I am stronger than I thought.” 

“ I think so too,” said Coucou. “ Only the <3ount understands 
how to squeeze one’s hand in that way. I almost forgot to asK 
you, vicomte, where you intend to take breakfast ?” 

“ Down-stairs in the dining-room.” 

“ Are you going to breakfast alone?” 

“That depends. Perhaps one of my friends may drop in, 
though I haven’t invited any one.” 

“Please ring the bell in case you want to be served,” said 
Coucou, as he left the room. 

Spero stood at the writing-desk for a time, and his dark eyes 
were humid. He shoved a brown velvet curtain aside and en- 
tered a small, dark room which opened from his study. A 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


Ill 


pressure of the finger upon the blinds caused them to spring 
open, and the broad daylight streamed through the high win- 
dows. The walls, which were hung with brown velvet, formed 
an octagon, and opposite the broad windows were two pictures 
in gold frames. The vicomte’s look rested on these pictures. 
They were the features of his parents which had been placed upon 
the canvas by the hand of an artist. In all her goodness, Haidee, 
Ali Tebelen’s daughter, looked down upon her son, and the 
bold, proud face of Edmond Dantes greeted his heir with a 
speaking look. 

‘‘Ah, my mother,” whispered Spero, softly, “if you were only 
with me now that father has left me. How shall I get along in 
life without him? The future looks blank and dark to me, the 
present sad, and only the past is worth having lived for! What 
a present the proud name is that was laid in my cradle. Others 
see bright light where the shadow threatens to suffocate me, 
and my heart trembles when I think that I am standing in the 
labyrinth of life without a guide !” 

From this it can be seen that the count had not exaggerated 
in his letter to his son. He domineered, consciously or uncon- 
sciously, over his surroundings, and so it happened that Spero 
hardly dared to express a thought of his own. 

Spero was never heard to praise or admire this or that, before 
he had first inquired whether such an opinion would be proper 
to express. The father recognized too late that his son lacked 
independence of thought. He had, as he thought, schooled his 
son for the battle of life. He had taught him how to carry the 
weapons, but in his anxiety about exterior and trivial things 
he had forgotten to make allowance for the inward yearning. 
The form was more to him than the contents, and this was rer 
venging itself now in a telling way. The demands of ordinary 
life were unknown to Spero. He had put his arm in the burn- 
ing flame with the courage of a Mucius Scaevola, and quailed 
before the prick of a needle. 

Suddenly the door- bell rang, and breathing more freely, the 
vicomte left the little room. When he returned to his study lie 
found Coucou awaiting him. The Zouave presented a visiting 
card to the vicomte on a silver salver, and hardly had Spero 
thrown a look at it, than he joyfully cried: 

“ Bring the gentleman to the dining-room, Coucou, and put 
two covers on; we shall dine together.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

FORWARD, MARCH. 

When Spero entered the dining-room, a handsome young 
inan about twenty-five years of age hurried toward him with 
outstretched arms. 

“ How are you, my dear Spero?” he vivaciously cried. 

“ Oh, thank you, very well; do you know, Gontram, that you 
couldn’t have come at a more appropriate hour?” 

“Really ? That pleases me,” said the new-comer, a painier 
who in spite of his youth enjoyed a great reputation. Laying 


112 


THE SON OF MONTE-PRISTO. 


his hand on Spero’s shoulder, he looked steadily at him and 
earnestly asked: “Has anything disagreeable happened to 
you ?” 

“No; what makes you think so?” replied Spero, confused. 

“ Your appearance is different from usual. Your eyes sparkle, 
and you are feverishly excited. Perhaps you have some secret 
to intrust to me?” 

In the meantime the young men had seated themselves at 
table, and while they were eating they indulged in general con- 
versation. 

“ Do you know that my father has left Paris suddenly?” asked 
Spero in the course of the conversation. 

“ No; where has the count gone to r” 

“ I do not know,” said the vicomte. 

Gontram Sabran had been acquainted with Spero for two 
years. 

He had attracted the vicomte’s attention through a picture he 
had exhibited, and as Spero admired painting, he paid a visit to 
the creator of the wonderfully natural painting. 

The picture represented a young gypsy who was playing the 
violin. The vicomte sent his father’s steward to the artist with 
an order to buy the canvas at any price. Gontram Sabran had 
refused to sell the painting, and the vicomte went personally to 
the painter. 

“ Sir,” said Gontram, politely, “ you offered me twenty thou- 
sand francs for a picture which is worth far less; that I have 
nevertheless refused to sell the picture needs an explanation, 
and if you are willing, I shall be happy to give it to you.” 

Spero had become curious, and upon his acquiescence Gontram 
told him the following: 

* “I had a girl once who suffered from an incurable disease. 
We were very happy together, enjoyed the present, and thought 
very little of the future. One day as was customary with us, we 
undertook a little promenade. It led us however further than 
we intended to go, and before we knew it we were in the woods 
of Meudon. Curious and wonderful sounds awoke us from our 
reveries, and going to an opening, we saw a young gypsy who 
was playing the violin and moving her body to and fro to the 
time of the instrument. Aimee listened attentively to the 
heavenly playing of the almost childish girl, but suddenly I felt 
her head lean heavily on my shoulder — she had fainted, and I 
brought a very sick girl back to Paris. 

“One week later death knocked at her door. Aimee knew she 
was going to die, and with tears in her eyes she begged me to 
hunt up the gypsy girl and have her play a song to her before 
she died. 

“ What was I to do ? I could not find the gypsy, and was almost 
in despair. On the morning of the fourth day, the invalid sud- 
denly rose in her bed and cried aloud: 

“ ‘There she is, I hear the gypsy’s violin — oh, now I can die 
peacefullvl Open the window, Gontram, so that I can hear the 
m^.sic better.’ 

“I did as she said^ and now the tones of the violin reached my 


THE SON OF MONTE-CUISTO, 


113 


ears. The dying girl listened breathlessly to the sweet sounds. 
When the song was over, Aimee took my hand and ^^hispered: 

“ ‘ Bring her up and beg her to play at my bedside.’ 

“I hurried into the street and asked the gypsy to fulfill the 
wish of the dying girl. She did so at once, and sitting beside 
Aimee, she played u[)on her instrument. How long she played 
I do not know," but I was thrilled by the sudden cessation of the 
music, and when I looked in terror at Aimee, I saw she had 
drawn her last breath— she* had gone to her eternal slumber Ij 
the music of the violin. 

“ The gypsy disappeared and I have never seeh her since. But 
I have put her features on canvas as they are engraved in my 
memory, and you can understand now why I do not wish to sell 
the picture.” 

“ Monsieur Sabran,” said Spero when the painter had finished, 
‘‘your little romance is interesting, and I am now ready to 
pay fifty thousand francs for the picture.” 

'Gontram looked pityingly at the vicomte and dryly replied: 

“ I stick to my refusal.” 

Spero went away disappointed. Two days later he hurried to 
the painter’s studio and hesitatingly said : 

“ Monsieur Sabran, I treated you the other day in a mean way. 
Please excuse me.” 

Gontram was surprised. Taking the vicomte’s hand, he cor- 
dially said: 

‘* I am glad I was mistaken in you; if features such as yours 
are deceitful, then it is bad for humanity.” 

From that day on they became fast friends. When the painter 
saw Spero’s disturbed features on this pariicular day, and heard 
that tl;e count had departed, he had an idea that it would do 
him good. 

“Where did your father go to?” he asked. 

“I do not know,” replied Spero, uneasily. 

“What? Your father did not inform yon?” asked Gontram. 

“No,” replied Spero; “he departed this evening and left a let- 
ter for me behind him.” 

“Ah, really, every one does as he pleases,” said Gontram; 
“ do you know I came here to-day to ask a favor of you ?” 

“You couldn’t do me a greater pleasure,” replied Spero, cheer- 
fully; “ everything I possess is at your disposal.” 

“ I thought so; the next time you will offer me your millions,” 
cried Gontram, laughing. 

“I hope you will ask me for something beside wretched 
money,” said Spero, warmly. “ I could gladly fight for you, or 
do some other important service for you.” 

“ And suppose I was to keep you at your word ?” asked Gon- 
tram, seriously; “ suppose 1 only came here to demand a sacri- 
fice of you ?” 

“Oh, speak!” cried the vicomte, eagerly. 

“H’m, would you for my sake get on top of a stage?” asked 
Gontram, earnestly; “no, do not look so curiously at me. I 
know you never did such a thing before, and knew what I was 
talking about when I said I would ask a sacrifice of you.” 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CEIST0. 


lU 

“ I — would — do it — to please you,’’ replied Spero, hesitatingly. 

“ I thought so,” cried the painter, laughing; yet I made you 
the proposition, because I thought you were boring yourself to 
death here.” 

But ” 

No, do not protest. You are not happy because you are the 
slave of propriety, and if you were to get in a stage with me it 
would be a heroic act on your part. If you want to go out, a 
carriage is at the door, the horses already harnessed. You have 
your own box at the theater, and so on. Nowhere do you come 
in contact with the great world, your life is no life.” 

Spero gazed at the painter in astonishment. 

“Why have you not told me all that long ago?” he slowly 
asked. 

“ Because a great deal depends on time and opportunity. If 
I had told you this at the commencement of our friendship you 
would have thought me impertinent, and I did not come here to- 
day either to give you a lecture. The words came unconsciously 
to my lips. Your life is that of a drop of oil which when put in 
a bottle of water feels itself in a strange element and decidedly 
uncomfortable.^’ 

Spero bit his lips. 

“Am I ever going to hear what service I can do for you?” 
he asked with a calmness which reflected honor on his powers 
of self-control. 

“ Bravo, you have already learned something. First fill your 
wine-glass, otherwise I shall drink all your fine sherry alone.” 

The habit of drinking moderately Spero had also learned from 
his father. 

Upon the remark of the painter, he filled his glass and impa- 
tiently said: 

“Well?” 

“ I would like to make a loan. Don’t laugh but hear what I 
have to say. I intend to give a little party in my studio ” 

“ In your studio?” said Spero in surprise. 

“ Yes, it is certainly not as large as the Place Vendome, but 
that don’t matter. Diogenes lived in a hogshead, and a dozen 
good friends will find plenty of room in my house. Let me tell 
you what gave me the idea. While I was studying in Rome, an 
aristocratic Italian, Count Vellini, took an interest in me. He 
was my friend, my Macaenas, and I owe a great deal to him. 
The day before yesterday he arrived in Paris, and I should like 
to revenge myself for his kindness. As he is a millionaire — not 
a millionaire like you, for he has, at the utmost, five or six 
millions-— I must offer him certain pleasures which cannot be ob- 
tained with money. 1 am going to turn my studio into a picture 
gallery and exhibit the best works of my numerous friends and 
my own. He shall see that I have become something in the 
meantime, and from what I know of him he will be delighted 
with my idea. I want to furnish my house properly, and for this 
I need some costly tapestries. You have real treasures of this 
description. Would you loan me a few pieces ?” 


THE SON OF MONTE^CRISTO. 115 

‘^Is that all?” said Spero, cordially. “You give me joy, and 
I hope you will allow me to attend to it.” 

“ That depends. What do you intend to do ?” 

“ I would like to ask you to let my decorator take charge of 
the furnishing of your studio. To-morrow morning he can se- 
lect from my store-house whatever he thinks best ” 

“ And spoil my fun ?” interrupted Gontram, frowning. “ No, 
no, I cannot consent to that. Your decorator may be a very 
able man, but that isn’t the question. I know of no greater 
pleasure than to do everthing according to my own taste. But 
I had almost forgotten the principal thing; I count on your ap- 
pearance.” 

“ I generally work at night,” replied Spero, hesitating. 

“No rule without an exception,” declaimed the painter; “I 
have invited ladies too and I hope you will enjoy yourself.” 


CHALTER XXX. 

JANE ZILD. 

On the night of the party Gontram’s room looked lovely, and 
when the guests arrived they could not refrain from expressing 
their admiration. The Oriental hangings gave the whole a 
piquant appearance, and Gontram knew where to stop, an art 
which few understood. The society which assembled in the 
painter’s studio was a very exceptional one. Many a rich banker 
would have given a great deal if he could have won some of 
the artists who assembled here for his private soirees, for the 
first sthrs of the opera, the drama and literature had accepted 
the invitation. Rachel had offered to do the honors; Emma 
Bouges, a sculptress, assisted her, and Gontram was satisfied. 

The painter had told the vicomte that he desired to revenge 
himself upon Count Vellini. The other reason he had for giving 
this party he said nothing of, and yet it was the one which did 
honor to his heart. Under the pretense of surprising the count, 
he had asked his numerous friends to loan him their pictures, 
and had hung them in splendid style. Of his own works he only 
exhibited the gypsy, and when the guests strode up and down 
the studio to the music of a small orchestra, it was natural that 
they criticised or admired this and that painting. 

Count Vellini, a splendid old gentleman, was enthusiastic 
over the cause of the party. He gave the secretary who accom- 
panied him directions to buy several of the exhibited paintings, 
and the secretary carefully noted everything. 

Signor Fagiano, the secretary, was not a very agreeable- 
looking gentleman. A blood-red scar ran clear across his face, 
his deep black eyes had a sharp, restless look, and one of the 
young partners jokingly said: 

“If I did not know that Signor Fagiano had charge of the 
count’s finances, I would suspect him of robbing his employer 
— he has a bad look.” 

While the young man uttered these joking remarks, new 
guests were announced, and tlieir names, “ Monsieur deLarsagny 
and Mademoiselle de Larsagny,” created surprise among the 


116 


THE SON OF MONTE^CRISTO, 


guests. Monsieur de Larsagny was the manager of the new 
credit-bank, and every one was astonished at Gontram’s acquaint- 
ance with him. However, as soon as Mademoiselle de Larsagny 
was seen to enter the room leaning on her father’s arm, the 
riddle was solved. The classical head of the young girl graced 
the last saloUf and as Gontram had painted the picture, no one 
wondered any longer at seeing the handsome Carmen and her 
father in the studio. 

The young girl appeared to be somewhat eccentric, a thing 
which was not looked upon as strange in the daughter of a 
millionaire. Nevertheless, the pranks of the young heiress never 
overstepped the bounds of propriety, and the numerous ad- 
mirers of the beautiful Carmen, thought her on this account all 
the more piquant. Her ash-blonde hair fell in a thousand locks 
over a dazzling white forehead, and the small, finely formed 
mouth understood how to talk. 

Hanging to Gontram’s arm Carmen walked up and down the 
studio. She sometimes directed her dark-blue eyes at the young 
painter, and who could scold Gontram if he loved to look in 
those magnificent stars. 

‘'I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having come here,” 
said Gontram, sparkling with joy, as he walked by the young 
girl’s side. 

“How could I have refused your cordial invitation?” replied 
Carmen, laughing; “ even princesses have visited the studios of 
their court painters.” 

“The Duchess of Ferrara, for instance,” said a young sculptor 
who had overheard the remark. 

Gontram frowned, and whispered softly to the young artist: 

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raoul.” 

Carmen, however, laughed, and . carelessly said; 

“ Let him alone, I knew the story long ago.” 

To make this little scene understood, w^e must observe that 
the young sculptor’s w’ords referred to that Duchess of Ferrara 
whom Titian painted in the primitive costume of Mother Eve, 
and it stung the young painter to the heart when he heard Car- 
men confess that she had heard the story before— who could 
have told it to the nineteen-year-old girl ? 

“What about the surprise you were going to give your 
guests?” asked Carmen, after an uncomfortable pause. 

“I will keep my word,” replied the painter, laughing. 
“ Have you ever heard the name of Jane Zild, mademoiselle?” 

“ Jane Zild? That wonderful songstress who comes from the 
north, either Lapland or Finland? What is the matter with 
her?” 

“ Well, this songstress, who by the way comes from Russia, 
has promised to be here to-night,” declared Gontram, triumph- 
antly. 

“Ah, really?” replied Carmen, breathing heavily, while her 
eyes shot forth threatening gleams. 

“What ails you, mademoiselle?” asked Gontram uneasily, 
“ have I hurt you in any way ?” 

_ “ No; what makes you tliink so ?” But let us go to the parlor; 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 

my father is already looking for me, and you know he can’t be 
long without me.” 

A curious laugh issued from the pale lips, and it seemed to 
Gontram as if she had accented the words “my father” in a 
peculiar way. 

Just as Gontram and his companion re-entered the parlor, a 
short but unpleasant scene was being acted there. An accident 
had brought Signor Fagiano and Monsieur de Larsagny together. 
Hardly had the secretary caught a glimpse of the banker, than 
he recoiled in affright and nearly fell to the ground. Larsagny 
sprang to his rescue, but Fagiano muttered an excuse and hastily 
left the parlor. 

Carmen and her companion were witnesses of the meeting, and 
Gontram felt the young girl's arm tremble. Before he could ask 
for the cause of this, she laughed aloud and mockingly said: 

“A good host has generally several surprises in petto for his 
guests; are you an exception to the general rule?” 

Gontram was about to reply when the door was opened and 
the servant announced : 

“ Mademoiselle Jane Zild, the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!” 

“ There you have my second surprise,” said the painter, laugh- 
ing, “ are you satisfied now ?” 

Gontram did not find out wdiether this was the case, for the 
banker uttered a cry at the same moment and stretched his hands 
out as if to ward off a specter. 

“What has happened to you. Monsieur de Larsagny?” asked 
Gontram in amazement. “ You are so pale and you tremble. 
Can’t 1 do anything for you ?” 

“ No, thank you — it is the heat,” stammered Larsagny; “ will 
you permit me to go on the terrace? I will recover in the fresh 
air.” 

Without deigning to notice Carmen the banker turned toward 
the glass door which led to the terrace, and disappeared. The 
young girl bit her lips, and the next minute she was the center 
of a gay crowd of admirers. 

Gontram in the meantime had gone to meet the young lady 
who had just entered. She was a wonderfully handsome girl, 
and taking the painter’s arm she slowly walked through the 
decorated rooms. 

Who Jane Zild was no one knew. Two months previously 
she had made her appearance in Paris society, and since then it 
was considered good form to patronize Jane Zild. 

The members of the opera and other theaters had arranged a 
performance for the relief of the inhabitants of a village which 
had been destroyed by fire, and the elegant world of the capital 
fairly grew wild with enthusiasm over the coming event. 

The climax of the performance was to be a duet, to be sung by 
the great Roger and a diva who was past her youth. Half an 
hour before the number was to be sung a messenger arrived who 
announced the sickness of the diva. Roger immediately declared 
his willingness to sing alone, and loud applause ran through the 
crowded auditorium when he sang the cliarming song from the 
“ White Lady,” “Ah, what a joy it is to be a soldier!” 


118 


THE SON OE MONTE-CRISTO. 


The success of the first part of the concert was assured. Be- 
fore the second part began a strange young lady went to the 

celebrated singer and offered to take the part of Madame X , 

and sing several songs. 

“ What is your name, mademoiselle?” asked Eoger. 

“ My name will be unknown to you as I have only been two 
days in Paris,” replied the stranger, laughing; I am Jane Zild. 
Perhaps you will allow me to sing something to you first. Will 
the beggar aria from the ‘ Prophet ’ be agreeable to you ?” 

Without waiting for answer Jane Zild went to the piano. 

The accompanist struck the first notes of the well-known aria, 
and hardly had Roger heard the magnificent contralto of the 
stranger than he enthusiastically exclaimed. 

Thank God, Madame X is sick!” 

“ That is treason!” scolded the young lady; but the public 
seemed to be of the same opinion as Roger, and rewarded the. 
young songstress, when she had finished, with round after round 
of applause. Encouraged by the applause, she sang the aria 
from “Orpheus:” “Ah, I have lost her, all my happiness is 
gone.” This set the audience wild. 

For two days nothing else was talked of in Paris than the 
young songstress. Jane Zild lived in a house in the Champs- 
Elysees. She had arrived, as she said, but a few days before 
from Russia, in company with an elderly man, who was looked 
upon as her steward, and whom she called Melosan. 

The reporters had seized upon these meager details and magni- 
fied them. According to them, Jane Zild was the daughter of 
a rich Russian nobleman. An unconquerable yearning for the 
stage brought her in conflict with her father, and burdened w ith 
his curse, she ran aw^ay from home. If in spite of this she did 
not go on the stage it was not the reporters’ fault. 

The young lady was very capricious and had refused the most 
tempting offers from the management of the opera. She also 
refused to sing for the Emperor at Compiegne, and it therefore 
caused a sensation among Gontram’s guests when Jane Zild sud- 
denly appeared. 

“ Gontram’s luck is really extraordinary,” said a colleague of 
the young painter laughingly, as he saw the majestic figure of 
the diva enter the room. What would he have said if he had 
heard in what w^ay Gontram had secured Jane Zild as one of his 
guests ? 

While the young painter w^as breakfasting with Spero, a per- 
fumed note was sent up to his residence in the Rue Montaigne, 
wherein Jane Zild declared her willingness to appear in the 
painter’s parlors and sing a few songs. 

Gontram did not say no, and immediately hurried to the diva's 
house to thank her. 

Spero had entered just behind the songstress, and Gontram 
smiled when he saw the vicomte. Spero’s carriage had driven 
up in front of the house almost simultaneously with that of the 
diva, and Spero assisted the young lady to alight. 

When the vicomte entered the parlor, he felt humiliated wiien 
be saw all eyes turned in the direction of the diva. No one 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. ' 119 

seemed to care to notice the heir of the Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Jane Zild strode the rooms with the dignity of a queen, 

“Heavenly I Admirable! Beautiful!” Such were the epithets 
which were murmured half aloud, and later when she sat down 
at the piano and sang a simple ballad, loud applause rang through 
the room. The ballad was followed by an aria; Jane then sang 
a Russian melody and closed with a magnificent tarantella. 

“Monsieur Sabran,” said a low voice to Gontram, “I must 
confess that you are an obliging host! You are forgetting all 
your other guests on account of the beautiful songstress, and I 
will reflect upon a suitable punishment.” 

The one who spoke was Carmen de Larsagny. Gontram 
blushed and made excuses, but it took some time to appease the 
young lady’s wrath, 

“Well,” she finally said, “ I will forgive you, but only upon 
one condition. Have you a moment’s time ?” * 

“ For you always,” replied the painter, warmly. 

“ Good; then conduct me to the terrace.” 

“To the terrace ?” repeated Gontram in surprise; “ how do you 
know I have a terrace ?” 

“Oh, I heard my father mention it a little while ago.” 

“ That’s so,” replied the painter; “ will you please accompany 
me ?” 

They both walked through tha studio and turned into the 
gallery. 

Suddenly Gontram paused, and uttered a low cry of astonish- 
ment. 

Spero was leaning against a door sunk in thought. 

“Can I introduce the young man to you?” asked Gontram 
softly of his companion. 

“ Who is he?” replied Carmen. 

“ The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo!” 

“What? The son of the celebrated count?” asked the young 
lady, looking at Spero with increased interest. 

“ Yes. I have a high regard for the vicomte.” 

“ I could have thought so,” said Carmen, laughing. 

“ What do you mean by that, mademoiselle?” asked Gontram 
in surprise. 

“Oh, you see you have the habit of caring very little for those 
whom you pretend to honor,” replied the young girl, looking at 
him in such a way that made the painter’s heart beat higher. 

“ I hope to be able to soon prove my esteem for you,” whis- 
pered the young man. 

Carmen'was for a moment silent, and then vivaciously said: 

“ Introduce me; I am curious to know your little vicomte.” 

Just then Spero raised his head, and seeing Gontram he 
cordially said: 

“ Gontram, am I not deserving of praise? You see I have ac- 
cepted your invitation.” 

“ I am very grateful to you,” replied the painter warmly, and 
turning to Carmen, he said: 

“ Mademoiselle de Larsagny, permit me to introduce the 
Vicomte of Monte-Cristo to you.” 


120 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO 


Spero bowed deeply. The young lady gazed steadily at the 
handsome cavalier, and admiration shone in her eyes. 

“I really have not had the pleasure of seeing the vicomte. 
I should not have forgotten him.” 

‘‘I believe you,” said the painter; “the vicomte is, by the 
way, a man of serious ideas, an ascetic, who does not care for 
worldly pleasures.” 

Spero protested with a shake of the head, and muttered some 
disconnected words. Carmen however noticed that his thoughts 
were elsewhere. 

“Mademoiselle de Larsagny,” said Gontram, laughing now, 
“ I hope that you and the other ladies here will succeed in con- 
verting the hermit.” 

Carmen was dissatisfied wuth the vicomte’s indifference, and 
bowing coldly, she went away, drawing the painter with her. 

“ Well, how does my eccentric please you?” asked Gontram. 

“ H’m, he is very handsome; wdiether he is intellectual, I can- 
not tell. Is the father of the little vicomte really the knight 
without fear and reproach, the hero of Dumas’ novel ?” 

“ The same.” 

“ And has this man — Edmond Dantes was his right name — 
really had all the adventurous wanderings imputed to him ?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ One more question. It might appear strange to you, but I 
must ask it nevertheless. Do you know whether Monsieur de 
Larsagny ever had any relations with the count ?” 

“ I do not know, in fact I hardly think so. Your father is liv- 
ing in Paris but a few years, and the count has not been in Paris 
for any great length of time during the last ten years. He is 
almost always traveling. I believe there is no country on earth 
which he has not already visited, and he is absent now too. 
However, if it interests you, I will make inquiries and — ” 

“Not for any price,” interrupted Carmen, laughing; “let us 
drop the subject and hurry to the terrace before others get 
there ahead of us.” 

“ We are there already,” said Gontram, laughing, as he shoved 
a Japanese drapery aside and stepped upon a small balcony with 
his companion. A beautiful view of the Champs-Elysees was 
had from here. 

At that time the many mansions which now fill the Champs- 
Elysees were not yet built, and the eye reached far down the 
beautiful lanes to the Place de la Concorde. 

The two young persons stood upon the little terrace, and the 
spring wind played with Carmen’s golden locks and fanned 
Gontram’s cheeks. 

The young girl now leaned over the railing, and breathing the 
balsamic air, she sighed : 

“Ah, how beautiful and peaceful it is here.” 

Gontram had his arm about the young giiTs slim waist, and 
carried away by his feelings he pressed a kiss upon Carmen’s 
coral-red lips. The young girl returned the kiss, and who 
knows but what they would have continued their osculatory ex- 
ercise had not a voice close to the terrace said; 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


121 


Take care, Monsieur de Larsagny, that you do not try to find 
out my name. You will know it sooner than will be agreeable to 
you.” 

Carmen shuddered, and leaning far over, she tried to espy the 
speakers. However, she could not see any one, though some 
passionate words reached her from below; Gontram, on the other 
hand, felt like strangling the disturbers. 

“Let us go back to the parlor,” said the young girl, and it 
seemed to Gontram that her voice had changed in tone. 

He silently opened the drapery and brought his companion 
back to the studio; when they entered it, tlie vicouite hurried to 
the painter, and said in a low tone: 

“Gontram, have you a minute for me? I must speak to 
you.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A THUNDERBOLT. 

The vicomte’s disturbed features and the tone of his voice 
caused Gontram to become anxious, and leading Carmen into 
the music-room, he stammered an excuse, and then returned to 
Spero. 

“ What has happened to you ?” he asked, as he saw the young 
man was still excited. “ I am afraid I am a very inattentive 
host.” 

“ Oh. that is not it,” said Spero, hesitating; “but ” 

“ Well, speak. You frighten me,” said Gontram, uneasily. 

“Gontram,” began the vicomte, “you have confidence in 
me?” 

“ Certainly; but what has that to do now ? You know that I 
este€ m you ” 

“ And you do not think me capable of deceiving or lying to 
you *?” 

“Spero, I do not know you any more,” cried Gontram, more 
and more confused. 

“ Have patieuv'^e, you will soon learn to understand me,” said 
the vicomte, sniiling curiously; “ let me now tell you what has 
happened to me.” 

Si>ero took a long breath, and then continued: 

“About ten minutes ago I was standing here, listening to the 
wonderful singing of that beautiful creature whom you-call Jane 
Zild. The melody transported me to another world, and I saw 
and heard very little of what was going on about me. Suddenly 
I heard a slight noise behind the drapery, and these words 
reached my ears: ‘ Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, take care of your- 
self. A trap has been set for you, and woe to you if you are 
foolish enough not to notice it.’ ” 

“A trap laid? What does that mean, and who was it that 
gave you this warning?” asked Gontram, in amazement. 

“ I do not know. Springing up I ran in the direction whence 
the words came; I shoved the drapery aside, but could see no 
one.” 

“ No one?” repeated the painter, breathing more freely, “ that 


m THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 

looks like magic! Are you sure, Spero, that you didn’t deceive 
yourself ?” 

“You do not believe me,” said the vicomte, smiling sorrow- 
fully. 

“Spero, you misunderstand me. Let us proceed to woik 
thoroughly, and, if possible, find out what has occurred. You 
yourself confessed that you were plunged in thought. 

“ In such half-dreamy conditions it often happejis that we 
imagine we see things which have no foundation in fact. We 
believe we see persons, hear voices ” 

“You speak of imagination,” interrupted Spero, “while I 
told you of something that I actually have experienced. I heard 
the words clear and legibly; the voice was strange to me, and 
yet there was something sincere in it which struck me.” 

“ Curious! Perhaps some one has played a joke upon you.” 

“ That would not be improbable, yet I do not believe it. The 
words were spoken seriously.” 

“But you are mad! A trap, if laid for you, could only be 
done by me. I must now ask you the same question you put to 
me: Have you confidence in me?” 

“ Perfect confidence,” said the vicomte, warmly. 

“ God be praised! Now follow me to the parlor, and forget 
your black thoughts,” and, shoving his arm under the vicomte's, 
he led him into the music-room.” 

“And where should the trap be?” asked Gontram, as they 
walked on; “ not in Jane Zild’s heavenly tones ? Just look how 
the dark eyes are looking at you — really you are in luck.” 

JaneZild had risen after the song was ended, and while the 
applause sounded about her, she looked steadily at the vicomte. 

“Banish the black thoughts,” whispered Gontram to the 
young man, “come and talk a little to the diva; she appears to 
expect it.” 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, turning to Jane, “here is one of 
your most enthusiastic admirers, who would consider himself 
happy if you would make a tour of the gallery with him.” 

Gontram turned to other guests, and Spero timidly drew near 
to the young girl and offered her bis arm. Jane hesitated for a 
moment to take it, and looked expectantly at the vicomte. She 
waited, no doubt, for a compliment or some word from him. 
As Spero remained silent, a satisfied smile crossed the classical 
features of the diva, and placing her hand on his arm, she care- 
lessly said: “ Let us go.” 

Just then something unexpected happened. A burning candle 
fell down from the chandelier, and a flame licked the black lace 
dress of the diva and enveloped her. 

A cry of horror came from the lips of the bystanders, and they 
all rushed away. Spero was the only one who possessed self- 
possession. Quick as thought he tore one of the draperies from 
the wall, and placing the thick cloth around the shoulders of the 
diva, he pressed her tightly to his bosom. 

The next minute Jane stood with pale face, but otherwise 
uninjured, before her rescuer, and holding her little hand to 
him, she whispered cordially: 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


m 


Thanks, a thousand thanks!” 

Spero took the long fingers and pressed his lips so respectfully 
upon them, as if Jane Zild was a queen and he her subject. The 
diva, with the drapery still about ber shoulders, looked really 
like a queen, and all eyes were turned admiringly toward her. 

A man dressed in plain dark clothes hurried 'through the 
crowd, and looking anxiously at Jane, he cried in a vibrating 
voice: 

“Are you injured?” 

The diva trembled when she heard the voice, and blushing 
deeply, she hastily replied: 

“ No, thank God, I am not hurt. The coolness of the Vicomte 
of Monte-Cristo prevented a misfortune.” 

• The vicomte, too, had trembled when he heard the unknown’s 
w'ords, for he 'felt certain that the voice was the same as that 
which had given him the mysterious warning. 

The man bowed respectfully to the vicomte, and Jane, turning 
to Spero, said in cordial tones: 

“Complete your good work, vicomte, and conduct me to my 
carriage.” 

Spero laid her little hand upon his arm and led her out. As 
Spero lifted her in the carriage she bowed again to him and 
whispered: 

“I hope we shall see each other again.” 

Jane’s companion looked at the vicomte in an embarrassed 
way; he evidently wished to say something to him, but had not 
the courage to do so. The next minute the hores started and 
the carriage rolled away. 

Spero looked after the equipage as long as it could be seen and 
then called for his coachman, as he wished to go home too. 
Just as he was about to enter the carriage, the coachman, in sur- 
prise, exclaimed: 

“You have forgotten your hat, vicomte. Jean, quick, go and 
get it.” 

Spero, in astonishment, felt his head; it was true, the coach- 
man was right. 

“Stay, Jean, I shall go myself,” he briefly said, as he hurried 
back to the house. 

Just as he reached the stairs. Monsieur de Larsagny and his 
daughter, whom Gontram escorted, and Count Vellini and his 
secretary came down. 

“ Vicomte,” said Carmen, vivaciously, “you are a hero, and 
the rest of the gentlemen can take you for an example.” 

Monsieur de Larsagny coughed sliglitly, while Fagiano loudly 
cried: 

“The vicomte is the worthy son of his father, the great 
count.” 

These words, although spoken in a respectful tone, displeased 
Spero, yet he kept silent and the guests departed. 

“ Stay a minute longer,” begged Gontram, “ I will take a walk 
with you, if it is agreeable; I am too much excited yet to go to 
bed.” 

“ That is my position too,” replied the vicomte. 


124 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO, 


The servant brought them their hats and cloaks, and they 
both walked in the direction of the Chainps-Elysees. Neither of 
them noticed a dark form, which stood at a street corner and 
looked -after them. 

“Have a care,” hissed Fagiano’s voice, ‘^yoii shall suffer for 
being his son;” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 

Jane Zild lived in a modest room in a small house on the 
C h amps - Ely sees. 

The interior was furnished in the ordinary style of a private 
house. In the basement was the reception-room, the sitting- 
room and dining-room. The owner of the house was Madame 
Vollard, the widow of an officer. One of her principles was, 
that it was better to have her rooms empty, than to let them out 
to people whose reputation was not of the best. 

She did not care much either for artists or actresses, but 
made some exceptions, and when Melosan, Jane Zild’s secretary, 
offered her a considerable sum for a room on the first floor, she 
immediately accepted. 

The bells of Notre Dame struck one o’clock, when a carriage, 
which contained Jane and her companion, stopped in front (J 
Madame Vol lard's house. 

In spite of the late hour, the landlady hurried to the street 
door to greet the young girl. When she saw the latter’s disor- 
dered toilet, she uttered a cry of horror. Jane had thrown off 
the cloak, and the burned dress with the withered and crushed 
roses could be seen. 

“What is the matter, my dear?” asked the worthy lady. 

“Oh, nothing,” replied Jane; “I am only' tired.” 

“Then you tell me. at least, what has occurred,” said Madame 
Vollard, turning to Melosan. 

“Later on, later on. The young lady is excited and needs 
rest.” 

“ Oh, I will give her some drops,” said the good-hearted lady, 

(( j ’>’> 


“Good-night, Madame Vollard,” said the secretary, and tak- 
ing a light from the lady’s hands, he hurried up the stairs with 
Jane. 

The young girl sank back in a chair exhausted. Melosan, a 
man about sixty years of age, with white hair and sunburned 
face, stood with folded hands before his mistress, and his dark 
eyes looked anxiously at Jane’s pale face. 

“You are suffering?” he said, after a pause. 

Jane shuddered. 

“ Ah, no,” she said, “ I am feeling perfectly well.” 

“ But the fright ?” 

“ Oh, that is nothing,” replied Jane, sorrowfully, and, rising 
up wildly, she passionately added: “ Why am I forced to enter 
a world which is not my own, and never can be! And it shall 
not be it, either,” she sobbingly concluded, “ never — neverl” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


125 


Melosan held down his head. 

“A queen would have been proud at the reception you had 
to-uight.” 

“ Why do you tell roe this ?” she exclaimed. “ A queen ? I ? 
Ob, what bitter mockery!” 

“ But your eminent talent — your voice?” 

“ Would to God I had uoue! I — but go now, I want to be alone.” 

Th(‘ man sorrowfully approached the door; on the threshold 
he paused and imploringly murmured: 

“ Pardon me, Jane, I did not wish to hurt you.” 

“ I know it. I am sometimes hard and cruel, but my unhappy 
situation is the cause of it. Why did not the wretched fire con- 
niine me ? Then all grief would have been at an end. Oh, my 
God! my God!” 

She sobbed as if her heart would break, and Melosan wrung 
liis hands in despair. 

“ Jane, tell me what has happened,” he said, in despair. I 
have never seen you this way before. Has any one insulted 
you?” 

“ No one,” said Jane, softly, no one.” 

Your fate is dreary and burdensome, but you are young and 
strong. You have life before you, and in time you’ll forget the 
past and be happy.” 

Melosan’s wor<ls caused the young girl to dry her tears. 

You are right,” she said, half ashamed, “ I was foolish and 
ungrateful. I will forget the past. Forgive me — grief over- 
whelmed me.” 

“You are an angel,” cried Melosan, enthusiastically; “but 
now you must really go to bed; good-night, Jane.” 

“ Good-night,” said the young girl, cordially, and then the 
door closed behind Melosan. 

As the secretary was about to go to his room Madame Vollard 
int:^rcef>ted him on the stairs. 

“Well, how goes it?” she asked; “ has the poor child recov- 
ered ?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“ What occurred?” 

“Slie was almost burned to death, her dress had already 
caught fire.” 

“What a lucky accicdent ” 

“ Lucky accident?” repeated Melosan, not understanding. 

“ I do not mean the fire, but the fact that I just possess a 
walking suit, such as Mademoiselle Zild needs, and which I can 
let her have at a very moderate price. A silk dress with pome- 
granate leaves ” 

“To-morrow, Madame Vollard, to-morrow,” Melosan inter- 
rupted her. “ I really feel fatigued, and should like to go to my 
room.” ^ 

“ You are right. I ought to have known it.” 

She disax^peared, and Melosan walked up the stairs. On enter- 
ing his room he locked the door, threw himself into a chair, and 
burying his fac^ in his hands hq spbbed bitterly. 


126 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 


^‘Whafc is going to happen now,” he muttered to himself; 
“my money is nearly all gone, and ” 

Hastily springing up, he opened the bureau and took a torn 
portfolio out of it. Opening it, he sorrowfully counted its con- 
tents and shook his gray head. 

“It is useless,” he muttered in a hollow voice, “ the day after 
to-morrow the rent is due, and what then remains to us is not 
worth speaking about. If I only could begin something, but 
everywhere my horrible past stares me in the face. I dare not 
go out in the broad daylight. I myself would be satisfied with 
dry bread, but Jane, the poor, poor thing! "With her talent she 
could have had a brilliant life, and reign everywhere like a 
queen if it were not for the terrible past. Like a specter it 
stands in our path, and while she is innocent, the curse of being 
the cause of both our wretchedness strikes me — I.” 

A slight noise caused Melosan to pause and listen. For a while 
all was silent, and then the noise recommenced. He hurried to 
the door, but could not see any one, and returning to the room 
he shook his head and resumed his seat. 

“ I must have been deceived,” he murmured uneasily, “ and 
yet I thought ” 

The knock was repeated, and this time so loudly that Melosan 
discovered from whence it came. Hastily going to the attic 
window he threw the curtain aside and peered out. A dark 
shadow moved here and there on the roof, and Melosan reached 
for his pistol. 

“ Who’s there ?” he cried. 

“ Some one who desires to speak you,,” came back in firm 
tones. 

“To me ? At this hour?” asked the secretary in a daze. 

“ Yes, to you — open quickly or I shall burst in the window.” 

Melosan saw that it could not be a thief, and so he hesitatingly 
shoved back the bolt. 

A powerful hand raised the window from the outside, and 
Melosan raised his weapon threateningly, but at this moment 
the light from the room fell full on the man’s face, and the sec- 
retary let the pistol fall, and cried in a faint, trembling voice; 

“ You! You! Oh, God! how did you get here?” 

“Ha! ha! ha! Don’t you see I came from the roof?” cried 
the man, mockingly. 

“ But you shall not come in,” cried Melosan, angrily, as he 
cocked the trigger of his pistol. “ Get out of here, or I shall 
blow your brains out.” 

“ You won’t do any such thing,” said the other, coolly. “ Do 
you think because you are posing as an honest man that other 
people will imagine you are one ? Ha! is the situation clear to 
you ? A good memory is a good thing to have, and if one does 
not like to hear names, it is better to acquiesce. Well, what do 
you^ay ? Shall we talk over matters peacefully, or do you per- 
sist in firing off your pistol and attracting the attention of the 
police ?” 

A shudder ran 


through Melosan, and h^ looked af the floor in 


137 


THE Soff OF MONTE-CRISTO. 

Can I offer you a cigar ?” continued the man. “ No ? Then 
permit me to light my own;” and turning himself in his chair, 
and reclining comfortably against the back of the fauteuil, the 
speaker lit a cigar, and with the utmost calm of mind, he puffed 
blue clouds of smoke in the air. 

Melosan was evidently struggling with himself. At last he 
had made up his mind, and angrily approaching the other, 
said: 

“ Listen to me. The sooner we get rid of each other the better 
it will be for both of us. Why did you hunt me up? You ought to 
have known long ago that I did not wish to have anything to do 
with you. You go your way and I will go mine; let neither of us 
bother the other, and as I am called Melosan, I shall forget that 
you ever bore another name than Fagiano.” 

‘‘You have become proud!” exclaimed the man who called 
himself Fagiano, laughing mockingly; “upon my word, Ansel- 
mo, if I did not kn»)w that you were a former galley-slave, I 
would think you were a prince!” 

“And I would hold you now and always for the incarna- 
tion of everything that is bad,” replied Anselm o (for it was 
he). “You ought to be called Lucifer instead of Benedetto!” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE CATASTROPHE. 

The two men looked at each other with flaming eyes. In 
Toulon they were chained together, and now 

Anselmo had reversed the letters of his name and called 
himself Melosan. In Toulon they were both on the same moral 
plane, but since then their ways as well as their characters 
changed. Benedetto sank lower and lower day by day, while 
Anselmo worked hard to obliterate the stigma of a galley- 
slave. 

Benedetto, bold and impudent, looked at his former chain - 
companion, and a mocking smile played about his lips. Ansel- 
rao, however, lost little by little his assurance, and finally im- 
plored Benedetto to leave, saying: 

“We two have nothing in common any more.” 

“ That is a question. Sit down and listen to me.” 

“No, Benedetto, we are done with each other.” 

“ Nonsense— you have become virtuous all of a sudden,” mock- 
ed Count Vellini’s secretary. 

“ Would to God it were so. When we were in Toulon an un- 
fortunate accident brought us together. A far more unfortu- 
nate one separated us, and since then it has been my endeavor 
to have the sins which led me to the Bagnio forgotten by the hon- 
est life I led. I do not care to know what kind of a life you lead. 
All I ask is that in the future we meet as strangers, and I hope 
you will consent to my wish!” 

“And if I do not do so?” asked; Benedetto, laying his hand 
upon his former comrade’s shoulder; “ suppose I will not forget 
you nor want to be forgotten by you ?” 

Anselmp moaned aloud. 


138 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE^CRIST0. 


“ Moan awaj^,” continued Benedetto. ‘‘ I know all the details 
of your past life, and if you have forgotten anything I am in a 
position to refresh your memory.” 

“ I — do not — understand you,” stammered Anselmo. 

“Think of the past,” replied Benedetto, frowning. 

“ Of the time when the smith fastened us to the same chain?” 

“Oh, think again.” 

Anselmo trembled. 

“ Do you speak of the moment when we jumped into the sea 
and escaped from the galleys ?” he softly asked. 

“No; your memory seems to be weak.” 

“ I do not know what you mean.” 

“ Really ? You seem to have drunk from the spring of Lethe,” 
said Benedetto, contemptuously. “Anselmo, l>ave you forgotten 
our meeting at Beaussuet ?” 

“ Scoundrel! miserable wretch! Do you really dare to remind 
me of that?” cried Anselmo, beside himself. 

“ Why not ?” 

“ If you can do so— no power on earth can induce me to say 
another word about that horrible affair,” said Anselmo, shud- 
dering. 

“ My nerves are better than yours,” laughed Benedetto. “ It 
was only to speak to you about that particular night that I 
braved the danger of hunting you up. I need you as a witness, 
and that is why you see me here.” 

“Asa witness?” exclaimed Anselmo, in surprise: “ either you 
are crazy or else I shall become so. Benedetto, if I open my 
mouth the gallows will be your fate!” 

“ That is my business and need not worry you at all. Do you 
remember the night of the 34th of February, 1839? Yes or no?” 

“Yes,” groaned Anselmo. 

“ No jeremiads! Do you also remember the vicarage at Beaus- 
suet ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, a certain person came expressly from Toulon to see 
about a sum’of money, a million 

“I have not touched a penny of the money,” interrupted An- 
selmo, shuddering. 

“No, certainly not, you were always unselfish. Well, do not 
interrupt me. The person who came from Toulon (recte Bene- 
detto) was just about to put the sum of money in his pocket, 
when the devil sent a stranger who ” 

“ Benedetto, if you are a human being and not a devil, keep 
silent,” cried Anselmo, beside himself. 

Benedetto shrugged his shoulders. 

“You are a fool,” he said, cuntemptously, “I heard two 
persons on the stairs, I hid behind the door, with a knife in my 
right hand. The door opened. The shadow of a form appeared 
in the door, and I struck. I felt the knife sink deep into a human 
breast.” ' 

“ Wretch! It was the breast of your mother!” stammered An- 
selmo. 

“ Ah, your memory is returning to you,” mocked Benedetto, 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE-CBIST0, 


129 


with a cynical smile. “Yes, it was my mother; but how did 
you know it ?” 

“ I met the unfortunate woman on the way in the gorges of 
Oliolles ” 

“ Ahl and there she told you the story of her life.” 

“ She begged me to help her save her son, and I promised to 
do so; I knew that you were that wretched son.” 

“ Did she tell you her name?” said Benedetto, uneasily. 

“She hid nothing from me; I found out that the son she 
wished to save intended to murder her ” 

“Facts,” said Benedetto, roughly, “and less talk.” 

“ And that this son was a child of sin.” 

“Ah, really; and her name ?” 

“ She made me swear to keep it secret.” 

“ So much the better I She really thought, then, that a galley- 
slave was a man of his word ?” • 

“ Galley-slave or not, I have kept silent, and will do so fur- 
ther.” 

“You are a hero! Nevertheless you can tell me the name.” 

“No.” 

“ And if I demand it ?” 

“ I won’t tell you, either.” 

“Anselmo, have a care!” hissed Benedetto, angrily. “Tell 
me the name, or- ” 

“I am silent,” declared Anselmo; “you do not know the 
name, and you will never learn it from me.” 

Benedetto broke into a coarse laugh. 

“ You are either very naive,” he said, “ or think I am. I only 
wished to see if you had not forgotten the name; the lady was 
Madame Danglars.” 

Anselmo uttered a cry of rage. 

“ Well, preacher oi words, what do you say now ?” asked Bene- 
detto, politely. 

“ Since you know the name, we are done with each other,” 
said Anselmo, “ and I think you will now leave me in peace.” 

“You are wrong, my dear Anselmo; do you know that you 
are very disrespectful ?” 

Anselmo began to ponder whether it would not be better to 
appear more friendly to the hated comrade. 

“Benedetto,” he said, in a gentle voice, “why should we be 
enemies? I know you had reason to be angry a little while ago. 
but the recollection of that fearful night unmanned me, and I 
did not know what I was speaking about. At that time, too, I 
was terribly excited ” 

“As I had reason to notice,” interrupted Benedetto. “You 
were ready to kill me.’' 

“ Let us forget all that,” said Anselmo, hastily. “You came 
here to ask a favor of me and 1 was a fool to refuse. We have 
both the same interests in keeping our past history from the 
world, and therefore speak. If what you desire is within the 
limits of reason, it shall be done.” 

“Bravo! you please me now, Anselmo,” cried Benedetto, 
laughing. “ At length you have become sensible. But tell me. 


180 


THE SON OE MONTE-CRISTO, 


is the little one handsome? For it is natural that your reform 
has been brought about by a woman; you always Were an ad- 
mirer and (connoisseur of the fair sex.’’ 

Anselmo sprang upon Benedetto and holding liis clinched 
fist in his face, he said: 

“ Benedetto, if you care to live, don’t say another word!” 

‘'And why?” asked the wretch, with silent contempt. 

“Because I shall not stand it,” replied Aoselmo, coldly. 
“ You have me in your power, Benedetto. With an anonymous 
letter you could denounce me to-morrow as an escaped galley- 
slave and have me sent back to the galleys. I would not care a 
snap for that, but I forbid you most energetically to throw a 
slur upon the reputation of the woman who lives with me under 
this roof.” 

“You forbid me? Come now, Anselmo, you speak in a pe- 
culiar tone,” hissed Benedetto'. 

“ I speak exactly in the tone the matter demands. You know 
my opinion, conduct yourself accordingly.” 

“And if I did not care to obey you?” 

“Then I would denounce you, even though I put my own 
neck in danger.” 

“ Ha! ha! I tell you you won’t do anything of the kind.” 

“Listen,” said Anselmo, “you do not know me. Yes, I was 
a wretch, a perjurer, worse than any highwayman. But I have 
suffered, suffered terribly for my sins, and since years it has been 
my only ambition to lead a blameless life as repentance for my 
crimes. I have taken care of a poor helpless being, and to de- 
fend her I will sacrifice my life. I bear everything to shield her 
from grief and misery; in fact, if it were necessary, I would ac- 
cept her contempt, for if she ever found out who I am, she would 
despise me.” 

“Have you pen, ink and paper?” asked Benedetto, after An- 
selmo had concluded. 

“ Yes, what do you want to do with them?” 

“ You shall soon find out.” 

Anselmo silently pointed to a table upon which writing ma- 
terials lay. Benedetto dipped the pen in the ink, and grinning, 
said: 

“ My friend, have the kindness to take this pen and write what 
I dictate.” 

“I?” 

“ Yes, you. I only want you to write a few lines,” 

“ What shall I write ?” 

“The truth.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ It is very simple; you will write down what you have just 
said.” 

“Explain yourself more clearly.” 

“ With pleasure; better still, write what I dictate.” 

Anselmo looked uneasily at the wretch; Benedetto quietly 
walked behind the ex-priest’s chair, and began : 

“On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped con- 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISrO. 131 

vict from the galleys of Toulon, murdered Madame Danglars, 
his mother.” 

“That is hon-iblel” cried Anselmo, throwing the pen down; 
“ I shall not write that.” 

“You will write; you know I can force you; therefore ” 

Anselmo sighed, and took up the pen again. 

“So, I am done now,” he said, after a pause; “must it be 
signed, too ?” 

“ Certainly; thougli the name has nothing to do with it. You 
can put any one you please under it.” 

It sounded very simple, and yet Anselmo hesitated. 

“No,” he firmly said, “I will not do it. I know you are up 
to some trick, and I do not intend to assist you.” 

Benedetto laughed in a peculiar w ay. 

“I know you are not rich,” said the pretended secretary, 
“ and ” 

Anselmo made a threatening gesture, but Benedetto continued : 

“ I was at this window for some time. Count Vellini’s house 
is next door to this, and I had no difidculty in getting here. I saw. 
you coimting your secret treasure, and consequently ” 

Unconsciously Anselmo glanced at the portfolio which lay on 
the table. Benedetto noticed it and laughed maliciously. 

“ Yes, there lies your fortune,” he said contemptuously. 
“ The lean bank-notes you counted a little while ago will not 
keep you long above board.” 

“But I have not asked for anything,” murmured Anselmo. 

“ I offer you a price.” 

Benedetto drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took 
ten thousand -franc notes out of it which he laid upon the 
table. “ Finish and sign the paper I dictated,” he coldly said, 
“ and the money is yours.” 

Anselmo grew pale. Did Benedetto know of his troubles; had 
he read his thoughts ? 

“ I will not do it,” he said, rising up. “Keep your money, 
Benedetto, it would bring me misfortune.” 

Benedetto uttered a cry of rage, and, grasping the pen, he 
seated himself at the table and wrote a few words. 

“ So,” he said, with a satanic gleam in his eyes as he held the 
paper under Ansel nio’s nose, “ either you do what I say, or else 
these lines which I have just written will be sent to the papers 
to-morrow.” 

Anselmo read, and the blood rushed to his head. He felt Ids 
brain whirl, and beating his face with his hands, he groaned 
aloud. What had Benedetto written? Only a few words: 
“ The lady who is known as Jane Zild is ” 

“You will not send these lines off,” cried Anselmo, springing 
up suddenly and clutching Benedetto by the throat. The latter, 
however, was too strong for him; in a minute he had thrown the 
ex-priest upon the bed. 

“No nonsense,” he sternly said, “either you write or I will 
bring the notice to the papers to-morrow.” 

The ex-priest took the pen and with a trembling hand wrote 
what Benedetto had asked of him. 


132 


THE SON OF iMONTE-CRISTO. 


“ Here,*’ he said, in a choking voice, “ swear to me — but no — 
you do not Mieve in anything— I ” 

“ My dear friend,” interrupted Benedetto, do not take the 
thing so seriously. I have no intention of disturbing your 
lieace.” 

Anselmo sank upon a chair, and his eyes filled with hot tears. 

Benedetto hastily ran over the paper and his lips curled con- 
temptuously when he saw the signature. 

‘‘The fool wrote his own name,” he murmured as he rubbed 
his hands, “ may it do him good.” 

The next minute the secretary of Coimt Vellini disappeared, 
and Anselmo breathed more freely. 

Suddenly an idea flew through his brain as his gaze fell upon 
tlie bank-notes. 

“ We will fly,” he muttered to himself, “ now, this very hour! 
This demon knows everything; we are not safe from him, and if 
an accident happens to Jane ” 

In desperation he walked up and down the room and discon- 
nected words came from his lips. 

“ AV’ho will guarantee me that he will keep silent ? Oh, he 
was always a wretch — to-morrow at four o’clock we can take 
the train — we will go to England and from there to America.” 

He paused, and going to the window, listened. Everything 
was quiet and Anselmo noticed that a rain shed connected the 
count’s house with that of Madame Vollard. Benedetto’s visit 
was probably undiscovered, and a great deal depended on that. 

“ I will wake Jane,” said Anselmo after a short pause, “I 
will tell her an excuse, and since she believes in me, she will be 
ready at once to follow me! I will tell her I am in danger and 
must leave France.” 

Anselmo carefully opened the door and listened. All was 
still in the house, and going on tiptoe, glided up to the next 
story and into Jane’s room — merciful God, it was empty! 

Uttering a ciy he rushed out of the room and down the stairs, 
and, a prey to despair, hurried out into the dark night. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A SHOT. 

In deep silence Gontram and Spero walked along the Champs- 
Elysees, which at this time of the day was deserted. They were 
both indulging in day-dreams and permitted the magical spring 
air to affect them. 

“Confound the slow pokes,” cried the painter at length, after 
the two young men had been walking up and down for over an 
hour; “I will go directly to the point. 

Spero looked up in amazement. Buried in thought, he 
believed Ms friend had spoken to him, and so he said con- 
fusedly: 

“ Excuse me, Gontram, I was thinking of something else and 
didn’t catch your meaning.” 

“ Oh, I was only thinking aloud,” replied the painter, laugh- 


THE SOH OF iMONTE-CEISTO. 1B3 

ing, ‘‘but it is best if I talk the matter over with you. I will 
sooner reach a decision.*’ 

“ I do not understand,” stammered Spero. 

“ I believe you; but do you know that we are both in the same 
boat.” 

“ How so?” 

“ Oh, I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but hope that you 
will listen quietly to ray confession and then give me your 
opinion,” 

“A confession? Have you any debts? You know very 
well ” 

“ That your purse is open to me I know, but I want to make a 
loan with your heart.” 

“Speak quickly; what is the matter?” 

“It is about the solution of a problem which has already 
brought many a man to the brink of despair.” 

“ Gontram!” 

“ Yes, look at me; it is unfortunately true. One of the most 
interesting chapters in Rabelais’ ‘ Pantagruel’ is devoted to the 
theme.” 

Spero was not in the humor for any literary discussion, and 
so he firmly said: 

“If Rabelais handled this tliefne, he did it undoubtedly in a 
more worthy way than I could possibly have done.” 

“H’m, Ra belais merely gives the question, but does not an- 
swer it.” 

“You are speaking in riddles,” said the vicomte, laughing, 
“and, as you know, I have very little acquaintance with practi- 
cal life.” 

“ But you know ‘ Pantagruel?’ ” 

“Yes, but ” 

“Panurge asks his master, ‘ Shall I marry or shall I not marrv ?’ 
and Pantagruel replies, ‘ Marry or do not marry, just as you feel 
inclined.’ ” 

‘'Ah, so that is the question you wish to place before me?” 
said Spero. 

“Yes.” 

“ But why do you come to me for my advice in such a delicate 
matter ?” 

“ Because I have confidence in you,” replied the pointer, warmly. 

“ Thank you,” said the vicomte, cordially; “ in questions of or- 
dinary life I know as little as a child yet. I think it is a mis- 
fortune to always live alone.” 

“ Then you advise me to marry?” 

“ If the woman you have selected is worthy to be your wife.” 

For a time they were both silent, and then Spero continued: 

“ 1 think marriage must be based upon unlimited mutual 
esteem.” 

“ You are right. You have, no doubt, observed that the young 
lady whom I conducted through the parlor this evening ” 

Spero trembled and uttered a low cry. The painter looked 
suspiciously at him, but the vicomte laughingly said that he had 
knocked against a stone, and so the painter continued: 


134 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


“ The young lady has captivated me 

“ Of which lady are you speaking?*’ asked the vicomte, un- 
easily. 

“ Of the pretty blonde, Mademoiselle de Larsagny!” 

“Ah! she is certainly very handsome,” cried Spero, breathing 
more freely. 

“ Don’t you think so?” exclaimed Gontram, enthusiastically; 
“ that is the young lady I mean.” 

“In that case I can only congratulate you at the choice you 
have made.” 

“ Thank you. Then you think Carmen de Larsagny charming ?” 

“ Yes. From what I have seen of the young lady she deserves 
the love of such a splendid fellow as you are.” 

“If I were to obey the voice of love,” said Gontram, “ I would 
go to her now and say : 

“‘I love you—be mine! ”’ 

“ And why do you hesitate? You love her, do you not?’* 

“I suppose so; Carmen is charming. This evening I was at 
the point of proposing ” 

“Well? and ” 

“ That is just the point. Spero, have you never had a feeling 
which caused you to leave undone something which your heart 
prompted you to do ? Several times this evening a feeling of 
coming misfortune overcame me, so that I had great trouble to 
retain my cheerfulness.” 

“ Such things are sometimes deceiving,” said Spero. 

“That may be, but every time I think of a marriage with Car- 
men a feeling of uneasiness overcomes me.” 

“ That is merely nervous excitement.” 

“ I am in love and ” 

“ Well, you hesitate?” 

“I have not told you everything yet. I committed an in- 
discretion 

“ Of what nature ?” 

“ I embraced Mademoiselle de Larsagny and kissed her.” 

“ Ah! and the young girl?*’ 

“ Did not repulse me. Now shall I marry or not?*’ 

“What does your heart tell you ?” 

“ My heart is like Pantagruel. It knows no decided answer.” 

“ Good. If ydu follow my advice, marry the girl! A kiss be- 
tween two good young people is as binding as an engagement.” 

“ You are right, a hundred times right, and yet the moment 
I pressed my lips to hers I felt a pain in my heart. If I only 
knew the cause of this fright which seizes me every time I think 
of Carmen.” 

“Perhaps it is her father. Monsieur de Larsagny, who does 
not inspire jmu with confidence?*’ said Spero after a pause. 

In the meantime the two friends reached the Arc de Triomphe 
and walked up and down the woods. 

“Perhaps you are right,” said Gontram, answering the 
vicomte’s last question. “ I know very little of IMonsieur de 
Larsagny, and yet I would like to swear that there are some 
dark points in his past.” 


THE mV OF 2lONTE-CRmT0. 185 

At this moment a shot sounded in the still night, and the 
friends stood still and looked at each other in surprise. 

What was that?” cried Spero. 

A shot, and, as I fear, a crime,” said Gontram, softly. 

The young men hurried in the direction from which the shot 
came, and were soon in a small pathway which was lit up by 
the faint gleam of the moon. On the ground a motionless form 
lay. Spero bent over it, and, uttering a hollow cry, he took it 
in his arms and clasped the head with its long, black, streaming 
hair to his bosom. It was Jane Zild whom the vicomte held in 
li7s arms. Near her lay a revolver. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WILL SHE LIVE? 

Spero hurried with his burden to the street, and Gontram 
could hardly keep up with him. Finally he overtook him, and 
placing his hand on the vicomte’s shoulder, he urgently cried: 

** Spero, where are you going with this corpse ?” 

“She is not dead,” replied the vicomte, tremblingly. “She 
lives; she must live — she dare not die!” 

“And who is she?” asked Gontram, as he tried to get a 
glimpse of the face. Yes, he recognized her now as she lay in 
Spero’s arms. 

“Jane! Jane Zild?” stammered the painter, terror-stricken. 
“Oh, my God!” 

They had now reached the Place de I’Etoile, and Gontram 
looked around for a carriage. 

“What shall we do?” he asked, turning in desperation to 
Spero. “ Are you going to bring the poor thing to your house? 
I shall go and arouse the servants.” 

“Do so, Gontram, and hurry — every minute counts.” 

Soon the Monte-Cristo mansion was reached. Spero carried 
the unconscious girl up the stairs and gently laid her on the 
divan. He then got on his knees beside Jane, and hiding his 
face in his hands, he sobbed bitterly. 

Gontram now approached his friend. 

“Spero,” he said, “calm yourself, we must rescue the poor 
•child.” 

The vicomte sprang up. 

“You are right, Gontram,” he replied; “but if she is dead, I 
shall die too, for I love her — I love her more than my life.” 

“ She is no doubt wounded,” said Gontram softly. 

“ Yes, just hold a light here,” cried the vicomte. “ I will ex- 
amine her; I have not studied medicine for nothing.” 

The vicomte laid his ear to her bosom, and then said: 

“ She lives, but to tell whether there is any hope I must exam- 
ine her more closely. Gontram, go to my study and bring me 
the cedar box, which stands on my writing-desk.” 

Gontram left the room, and Spero was alone with the uncon- 
scious girl. Placing his hand upon her white forehead, he bent 
over the young girl and tenderly murmured: 

“ Poor dear child! Why did^you wish to die ? Oh, Jane, Jane! 


136 THE SON OE MONTE-CRISTO, 

you must live— live for me, and no power on earth shall tear you 
from me!” 

He pressed his lips upon her pale mouth, and with this kiss his 
soul was bound to that of the young girl. 

Gontram now returned ; Spero opened the box and took an 
instrument from it. 

“Feel if my hand trembles,” he said, turning to the painter; 
“ only if that is not the case can I dare to probe for the bullet.” 

Gontram took hold of the white hand. It did not tremble, and 
Spero began to probe for the bullet. 

“ The ball has not touched a vital part,” whispered the vicomte 
at length; “ it lies in the muscles. I touched it with the instru- 
ment.” 

‘ ‘ Do you think you can remove the bullet ?” asked the painter. 

“I hope so.” 

The vicomte winked to Gontram to hand him the box again, 
and taking a bistoury and a pincette, he bent over the uncon- 
scious girl again. 

An anxious moment passed and then Spero triumphantly ex- 
claimed : 

“Saved!” 

“ Saved,” repeated Gontram as he took the murderous lead 
from the vicomte’s hand. 

“ Then we can call the housekeeper,” said Spero, after he had 
poured a liquid down the young girl’s throat. 

He hurried out, and returned in less than five minutes with 
Madame Caraman. 

The last time we saw the worthy governess she was in Africa, 
in company with Miss Clary. The latter fell in love with Cap- 
tain Joliette and married him in spite of Lord Ellis’ opposition. 
The young couple were very happy until the coup (Tetat of the 
2d of December, 1851, when Albert de Morcerf was killed by a 
murderous ball. Six months later Miss Clary died of grief. 
Four w’eeks after her death Madame Caraman became the house- 
keeper of the Monte-Cristo mansion. Thus it came about that 
Spero hurried to hi^r for aid for the sick girl. She asked no ques- 
tions, but with the vicomte’s assistance, placed a bandage upon 
the young girl’s wound and wished to discreetly retire. 

“Mamma Caraman,” said Spero, imploringly, “ stay here and 
watch over the young girl whom I place under your protection. 
Let no one know that she is in this house.” 

Spero thereupon withdrew, while Jane Zild remained behind 
under the care of the good-hearted woman. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 
melosan’s secret. 

We left Melosan as he ran into the street in despair, hoping 
to find the missing girl. 

Had Jane run aw ay ? Had she been abducted ? 

Two policemen were patrolling the Champs-Elysees, and An- 
selmo w-ent up to them and politely asked them whether they had 
uot seen his mistress, a young lady ? 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


137 


The officials looked suspiciously at him, and remarked that 
the young lady would have something else to do than wander in 
the streets at this time of night. Anselmo sorrowfully bowed 
his head, and after thanking them, continued on his way. 

He had reached the polygon and listened attentively. He 
heard steps, but not the right ones. Suppose Jane had com- 
mitted suicide ? 

She had been so painfully excited this evening, and Anselmo, 
who knew her past, shuddered when he thought that the Seine 
was not far away. 

Without a pause he ran to the edge of the water; the dawning 
day was raw and chilly, and Anselmo shuddered as he looked 
in the dark waves; were they taking his dearest treasure on 
earth along in their course ? 

What mysterious tie bound him to Jane Zild? the former gal- 
ley-slave to the beautiful, talented creature ? 

******* 

Twenty -one years had passed since Anselmo had witnessed the 
killing of Madame Danglars by her son Benedetto, and the 
latter’s flight with the treasure. Anselmo was, of course, a 
scoundrel, too; but his whole being rose up in anger at such in- 
human cmelty, and, grasping his pistol, he had threatened to 
kill the parricide if he did not depart at once. 

Benedetto plunged into the sea, and was rescued upon the 
island of Monte-Cristo. 

Anselmo had remained behind, half dazed, and only little by 
little did he recover his senses sufficiently to think over his own 
situation. It was a desperate one; yet he would not have ex- 
changed with Benedetto for any price. 

Suddenly, a faint glimmer of daylight shone through the open 
window, and Anselmo trembled when his gaze fell on the pale 
face of the murdered woman. Suppose she was not dead? 
Anselmo bent over her and listened; not the slightest sign of 
breathing was visible, and yet the convict thought he felt an 
almost imperceptible beating of the heart. 

Should he call for help ? That would be equivalent to deliver- 
ing himself over to the hangman. If he hesitated, the woman 
would die, under all circumstances. Who would believe him, if 
he said that the v/oman’s own son was the murderer ? Appear- 
ances were against him, and, if the murdered woman really 
recovered consciousness again, and she would be asked who 
raised the knife against her, she would much sooner accuse 
him than the son whom she madly loved. 

While Anselmo was still debating the question in his mind, he 
heard a noise in front of the house, and, hurrying to the window, 
he perceived the priest, who had just returned home from his 
journey. The convict uttered a cry of relief. He could now 
leave without having a murder upon his soul, for the clergyman 
would, no doubt, immediately discover what had happened, and 
take care of the victim. He waited until he had heard the 
priest’s steps on the stairs, and then swung himself through the 
window onto the tree which had helped IBenedetto to enter the 
room, and disappeared at the very moment that the horrified 


188 


THE SON OF JMONTE-CRISTO. 


clergyman entered the room. Anselmo determined to leave 
France in an easterly direction. After great trials and difficulties 
he reached Switzerland, and from there he journeyed to Ger- 
many. Intelligent and active, he soon found a means of earn 
iiig an honest living; he settled in Munich, and, under the name 
of Melosan, gave lessons in French. 

Fifteen years passed in this way. Anselmo worked hard, and 
was satisfied with the reward of his activity. His scholars 
esteemed him. During this time an entire change had taken 
place in the former convict. But then a yearning to see France 
once more seized him, and be resolved to return to the father- 
land. 

He first went to Lyons, where he gave lessons in German and 
Italian. He lived in a modest apartment in the Faubourg St. 
Antoine. One evening Anselmo was walking along the quay 
when he heard quarreling voices. A woman’s voice cried 
aloud: 

‘‘ Let me go! 1 want to go for my daughter; I have nothing 
to do with you. Help, help!” 

Anselmo stood still. A woman was no doubt struggling with 
some men, and when her cries redoubled, he forgot his prudence 
and hurried toward the group. 

As he suspected, he found three drunken workmen trying to 
force a sixteen-year-old girl from the. grasp of an elderly 
woman. 

The woman cried loudly for help and struck angrily around 
her. The young girl, however, silently defended herself. 

“Don’t be so prudish, Zilda,” said one of the men. “You 
make as much noise as if we were going to hang the little one.” 

The speaker, as he said this, threw his arms around the slim 
waist of the young girl and tried to draw her to him. At this 
moment Anselmo appeared, and with a teirible blow he struck 
the fellow to the ground. 

The young girl sobbed, and taking the hand of her rescuer, 
she pressed a kiss upon it, and then turning to the old lady, who 
was leaning against the wall moaning, she cried, beside herself: 

“Oh, mother, mother! What is the matter with you ? My 
God, she is dying!” 

This really seemed to be the case; the poor woman had be- 
come deathly pale, and sunk to the ground. 

“ Let me help you,” said Anselmo to the young girl as he bent 
down and took the unconscious woman in his arms. “ Where 
do you live ?” 

As simple as the question was, the girl appeared to be embar- 
rassed by it. 

“ Won’t you tell me where you live?” said Anselmo, as the 
girl remained silent. 

“ We do not live far from here, in the Rue Franchefoin.” 

“ I do not know that street.” 

“Ah, I believe you,” stammered the poor child, shuddering: 
“ I shall proceed in advance.’ 

“ Do so,” said Anselmo. 

The ex-priest followed her, bearing the unconscious woman 


THE SON OF 3I0NTHCRIST0. 


139 


in bis muscular arms, and only gradually did he perceive that 
his companion was leading him into one of the most disreputa- 
ble streets in the city. 

The young girl stopped in front of a small house. A. robust 
woman stood in the doorway, and when she saw the young girl, 
she venomously said ; 

“ Zilda has taken time. She stayed away a good two hours to 
get her daughter.” 

“ My mother is dangerously ill, perhaps dying,” said the young 
girl in a sharp voice. 

“It won’t be so serious,” replied the woman, with a coarse 
laugh. 

“Have you not heard that the woman is dangerously ill?” 
said the ex-priest. 

“ Is she sick?” asked the woman, coldly; “ well, if she dies, it 
won’t be a great misfortune. I ” 

“ Madame, for God’s sake!” implored the young girl. 

“ Show me to a room where I can lay the invalid down,” said 
Anselmo roughly. 

“ Yes, yes, directly. Follow me if you are in such a hurry,” 
growled the woman. 

Just then two men who were intoxicated staggered into the 
hallway. 

“ Ah, there is Zilda,” cried one of them; “ quick, old woman; 
come in and sing us a song.” 

The woman opened a door and winked to the ex-priest to en- 
ter. The room was small and dirty. In the corner stood a sloven- 
ly bed upon which Anselmo deposited the invalid. 

“ Is there a physician in the neighborhood ?” he asked. 

“ A physician ? That is hardly worth the trouble,” mocked the 
virago, “ she is only drunk.” 

* Tlie ex- priest took a five-franc piece from his pocket and 
said : 

“Get a physician, I insist upon it.” 

Tlie next minute the virago was on the way. 

Anselmo remained alone with the two women. The young 
girl sobbed silently, and the invalid remained motionless. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he began, “I think you might loosen your 
mother’s dress; the fainting fit lasts rather long.” 

The young girl looked at him, seeming not to understand. 

“ She is your mother, is she not ?” 

The young girl nodded, and rising, pressed her lips upon the 
woman’s forehead. Thereupon she loosened her mother’s 
dress and held a glass of water to her lips. The invalid mechan- 
ically drank a few drops, but soon waved it back and whis- 
pered: 

“ No more, no water, leave me!” 

“Mother,” said the young girl, “mother, it is I; do you not 
know me?” 

“ No, I do not know who you are!” cried the invalid. “ Away, 
I cannot sing to-day — my breast pains me. Oh 

“ Oh, mother,” sobbed the poor child. 

“ Yes — I am cold— why do you put ice on my feet ?” complained 


140 THE SON OF MONTE-CRIS7V, 

the invalid, and with a quick movement she raised herself up 
in bed. 

Suddenly the delirious woman caught sight of Anselmo, and 
with a terrible cry she sprung at him with clinched fists. 

“ There Tou are, you wretch,” she hissed; ‘‘where have you 
put your black coat ?” 

Just then the virago returned with the doctor. 

The latter looked contemptuously at her, and in a gruff voice 
said: 

“ Lie down I” 

He then beat her bosom, counted her pulse, and shook his 
head. 

“Nothing can be done,” he dryly declared; “ her strength 
has been impaired by a fast and dissipated life, and ” 

“But, doctor,” interrupted Anseimo, “ have some compunc- 
tion for the poor woman. You see she is conscious and under- 
stands every word.” 

“Ah, you are probably a relative of hers, or has your warm 
interest in her some other ground ?” 

“ Doctor, I only speak as a human being,” replied Anselmo, 
sternly, “ and if you do not do your duty as a physician I will 
notify the proper authorities.” 

This threat had the desired effect. The doctor drew his note- 
book from his pocket, rapidly wrote a prescription, and went 
away. 

Anselmo took the prescription and hurried to the nearest 
drug-store. As he walked along the snow-covered streets, he 
muttered to himself: 

“ Merciful God, do not punish me so hard!” 

When he returned he found the virago awaiting him at the 
door. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, “ it seems that Zilda interests you.” 

“Yes, like any other unhappy creature.” 

“ Well, I have her papers. Her name is Zild — Jane Zild.” 

“Give them to me,” said Anselmo, firmly; “I will take care 
of her.” 

“ May God reward you; the sooner you get her out of my 
house the happier I would be.” 

The woman hurried into the house and Anselmo handed the 
invalid’s daughter the medicine he had bought, and waited for 
the return of the virago. In less than five minutes she returned 
and handed the ex-priest a package of papers. 

“Where can I look through them ?” he asked, uneasily. 

“Oh, come into the kitchen.” 

Anselmo accepted her invitation, and by the flickering light 
of a tallow candle, he unfolded the yellow and withered papers. 

One of the papers contained a passport for the workman, Jean 
Zild, and his daughter Jane, made out by the commune of Sitz- 
heim in Alsace. When Anselmo read this he grew pale and 
nearly fell to the floor in a faint. 

“ The reading seems to overtax your strength,” said the wom- 
an giggling. “ Zilda has traveled a great deal, and may be, you 
have met her before.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


141 


“ I hardly think so,” stammered Auselmo. 

In company with the virago Anselrao re-entered the sick- 
room, and laying his hand on the young girl’s shoulder, he 
said; 

“ My dear child, your mother is much better now, and if you 
follow my advice you will go to bed and take a rest. I shall 
stay with the invalid. The housekeeper here has kindly con- 
sented to give you a room.” 

“Not for any price,” cried the little one in terror; “I cannot 
stay in this house overnight.” 

Little by little he managed to calm the poor child and make 
her understand his aim. She hesitatingly consented to stay over- 
night in tlie house, and the housekeeper" conducted her to a little 
room. With inward terror the little one gazed at the unclean 
walls, and only her love for her mother induced her to stay and 
not return even now. 

“Good-night, mother,” she said, sobbing. 

The woman looked vacantly at her and gave no sign of recog- 
nition of her daughter. 

“Do not wake your mother up,” said Ansel mo, hastily. 
“ Sleep is necessary to her and I will call you if she asks for you.” 

“ Then you reallv intend to stay here ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Do you know us ?” 

“ No,” stammered Anselmo, “but go to bed now, it is late.” 

“ You wiU surely call me ?” asked the little one. 

“ Certainly; go now and rely on me.” 

She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid— the dy- 
ing woman, as he shudderingly said to himself. 

From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her 
sleep and utter a low moan. 

Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of 
former beauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early 
and so sadly ? 

Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at 
the ex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded 
hands. 

“ How did you get here ?” she asked, timidly. 

“ You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn every- 
thing,” replied Anselmo. 

“I am sickl Ha! ha! ha! lam cursed — cursed!” she cried. 

“Keep still; go to sleep,” begged Anselmo, frightened. “ No 
one has cursed you.” 

“ But he — my father — oh, T have brought shame and sorrow 
upon him; but it was not my fault — no, not my fault. Oh, I 
was so young and innocent. Father said. Pray earnestly and 
often, and so I prayed. Oh, how nice it was in Sitzheim; the 
church lay upon a hill, hid in ivy, from which a view of the 
peaceful village could be had. A well was also in the village. 
Evenings we young girls used to go there to get water, and then 
— then he went past. How he frowned. He wore a black 
coat, and the bald spot on his shaved head shone like ivory. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 


m 

When he came near, we made the sign of the cross. We must 
honor the embassadors of God!” 

The dying woman with trembling hands Uiade the sign of the 
cross, and Anselmo groaned and moaned. 

“ I had not yet gone to confession,” continued the delirious 
woman; “ my father used to laugh at me and say: ‘ Stay at 
home, little Jane, you haven’t any sins to confess yet.’ I stayed. 
I was only sixteen. But one day as I was sitting in front of our 
door, the man addressed me. 

‘Why do you not come to confession?’ he asked sternly. 

“ ‘ Because my father said I was too young, and have no sins to 
confess.' 

“ ‘ We are all sinners in God,’ he earnestly replied. ‘ Do not 
forget that you will be eternally damned if you do not confess.’ 

“ I got frightened; no, I did not wish to be damned, and so I 
went secretly to confession. He always gave me absolution and 
I was happy. He sometimes met me when I went walking, and 
was always very friendly to me.” 

Anselmo leaned his head against the hard bed-post and sobbed 
— they were the bitterest tears he had ever wept. 

“He told me I was so pretty,” continued the woman. “He 
promised me dresses, books and sweetmeats — my father must not 
know that I saw his reverence almost every day, and then — then 
he suddenly disappeared from the village — his superiors had 
transferred him, and I — I wept until my eyes were red. And 
then — then came a terrible time. The girls at the well pointed 
their fingers in scorn at me — my father threw me out of the 
house! I ran as far as my feet w(»uld carry me — I suffered from 
hunger and thirst — I froze, for it was a bitter cold winter, and 
when I could no longer sustain my misery, I sprang into the 
water. 

“ I was rescued,” she laughingly continued, “and then my 
child, my little Jane was born, and to nurse her I had to keep on 
living. Yes, I lived, but how? The fault was not mine, but that 
of the hypocrite and scoundrel in clergyman’s dress!” 

“Mercy,” implored Anselmo. “ Mercy, Jane!” 

“ Ha! who — is it that~calls me ?” stammered the dying wom- 
an, faintly; “I should know — that — voice!” 

“ Oh, Jane, it is I — the wretched priest!’' whispered Anselmo; 
“ forgive me for my crimes against you and tell me if that girl 
there is,” he pointed to the other room — “ my — our daughter?” 

But the invalid could not speak any more; she only nodded and 
then closed her eyes forever. 

When day dawned a broken-down man rose from the bedside 
of the deceased. He had spent the night in torture, and now 
went to wake the daughter of the dead woman — wake his 
daughter! He must take care of her without letting her know 
that he was her father. 

When he told the girl her mother was dead, she threw herself 
upon the corpse, covered the pale face with tears and kisses, and 
yet — curious phase of this girl’s soul — when she thought she was 
not observed, she whispered faintly : 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 143 

God be thanked that your troubles are over, poor mother — 
now I can Jove you without blushing for you.” 

Anselmo ordered a respectable funeral, and when he returned 
from the cemetery with the young girl, he said with deep 
emotion: 

^‘Jane — I knew your mother — I promised her that I would 
look out for you— will you stay with me?” 

Jane Zild sorrowfully said “\es.” Anselmo left Lyons in 
company with the lonely child. He worked hard to place Jane 
above want, and tenderly loved her. Gradually he tried to win 
the young girl’s confidence; he comprehended that Jane was 
on the brink of despair^ and to distract her he began to educate 
her. 

The result was well worth the work. Jane learned with the 
greatest facility, and took pleasure in study. Yet she remained 
pale and melancholy, and Auselmo knew what troubled her — 
the memory of the horrible past. It seemed as if she were 
branded — as if every one could read on her forehead whose 
daughter she was. 

An accident revealed to Anselmo that Jane possessed eminent 
musical talents, and a magnificent contralto voice. He worked, 
saved and economized to be able to give Jane the best teachers. 
He removed with the young girl to a German city which pos- 
sessed a celebrated conservatory; Jane studied there music and 
singing. 

Three years father and daughter remained in Leipsic, and 
then Jane felt homesick — homesick for France. Anselmo 
selected Paris as their place of residence, and hoped that she 
would succeed in conquering a position at the opera. 

But Jane refused all offers from the managers, and when 
Anselmo reproached her she said, in bitter tones: 

“ If I were not my mother’s daughter the matter would be 
different. Shame would kill me if some one were to discover in 
me the daughter of Jane Zild. No, I must remain in seclusion 
until God sees fit to end my miserable existence!” 

It therefore surprised him when the young girl told him she 
thought of visiting the young painters soiree and singing there. 
Was she in love with the painter, or did she expect to meet some 
one in his parlor ? 

Anselmo declared that he would not go to any party in Pans, 
and would only bring her to theEue Montaigne and then call for 
her again. He was, however, not prepared- for the surprise 
which awaited him in Gontram Sabran's parlor. He recognized 
in Count Vellini’s secretary the demon Benedetto, and his heart 
ceased beating when he saw the wretch. He hoped Benedetto 
would not recognize him, but he was destined to be deceived, as 
we have seen. 

When Anselmo heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte- 
Cristo, he recollected tlie oath which the convict Benedetto had 
sworn against the Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Hidden by the drapery, he had given Spero the mysterious 
warning. After the soiree was over he was surprised at the ex- 


144 


THE SON OF MONTEHBISTO. 


cited condition of Jane. He attributed it to a recurrence of 
her tbougfits to her horrible past. 

And while he was promising to assist the former galley-slave 
in carrying out some deviltry, to save himself from being un- 
masked, Jane disappeared. Anselmo regarded it as a new evi- 
dence of the wrath of God. 

How long he lay crouched in a corner of the quay, buried in 
thought, he knew not; ail he knew was that the sound of hur- 
ried footsteps, which were coming toward him, had aroused him. 

Suppose it was Jane who wished to seek oblivion in the waters 
of the Seine? Anselmo listened. The footsteps drew near 
now — the spectral apparition of a woman went past liim and 
swung itself on the bridge railing. 

“ Jane — my childl” cried the despairing father; but when he 
reached the spot where he had seen the apparition it was empty. 

He bent over the railing. Something dark swam about. An- 
selmo thought he recognized Jane’s black dress, and only filled 
with a desire to rescue his child, he plunged into the turbulent 
waves. 

With a few powerful strokes he had reached the place where 
he had last seen the figure. Thank God! it was in front of him 
— he stretched out Ids arm — clutched the hand of the drowning 
person, and tried to swim back to shore with his dear burden. 

But the shore was still far away, the body lay heavy as lead 
on his left arm, and much as he tried to cleave the ice-cold 
water with his right, he could not succeed in doing it. He felt 
his strength grow feeble — was he going to be overcome at the 
last moment? 

Help! help! we are sinking!” he cried aloud, and as he felt 
himself seized at that moment by a huge wave, whose power he 
could not resist — the water entered his mouth — he cried again: 

“Help! help!” 

“ Patience! Keep up a moment longer! I am coming!” came 
back in a loud voice. 

The water was parted with powerful strokes, four arms were 
stretched toward the drowning persons, and Anselmo and his 
burden were brought to the shore by two men. 

“ Confound the cold,” said one of the men, shaking himself as 
if he were a poodle. “ I should like to know what reason in- 
duced these two people to take a cold bath so early in the 
morning r” 

“ Bring them to my house, Bobichel,” said the other man, a 
strong, handsome man, “ and everything will be explained 
there.” 

“ Yes, if they are still alive,” replied Bobichel. “ I think, Fan- 
faro, that we just came at the right moment. What will Ma- 
dame Irene say when we arrive home ?” 

“ She will at once prepare for everything,” said Fanfaro, 
laughing. 

After they had both walked along with their burdens in their 
arms for about a quarter of an hour, they stopped in front of a 
small house which lay back of a pretty garden. 

Five minutes later both the unfortunates lay in a comfortably 


THE SON OF MONTE^CBISTO. 


145 


warmed room, and Fanfaro, his wife, and Bobichel busily at- 
tended to them. 

“ Who can they be ?” asked Irene, gently, of her husband. 

“God knows,” replied Fanfaro; “anyhow, I am glad that 
they both still live.” 

But the woman Anselmo had rescued at the risk of his life was 
not Jane, but a gray -haired old lady. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

CABMEN. 

In a magnificently furnished house in the Rue de Rivoli sat 
Carmen, the handsome daughter of the bank director Larsagny. 
She was pensively gazing at the carpet, and from time to time 
uttered a low sigh. 

“Aha, bah!” she muttered; “ he shall tell me all.” 

She rang a silver bell, and immediately after a maid appeared. 

“ Whereas Monsieur de Larsagny?” 

“ In his office.” 

“Since when?” 

“ Since eight o’clock.” 

“ And what time is it now?” 

“Ten.” 

“ Good. Tell Jean to serve breakfast here in my boudoir, and 
then go and tell Monsieur de Larsagny that I await him.” 

A quarter of an hour later the banker appeared in the boudoir. 

He ate so greedily that Carmen impatiently exclaimed: 

“ Are you not yet satisfied ?” 

“ Really, I have a good appetite this morning,” nodded Lar- 
sagny. 

“ Do you know how your phenomenal appetite appears to me?” 
asked Carmen, laughing. 

“ No, what do you mean ?” 

“ Well, I mean that you must have been starving at one time, 
and since then you always feel greedy.” 

Larsagny shuddered and his brow frowned. 

“ Do not speak of such things, I cannot bear it,” he said, with 
a frown. 

“ Why not? Not every one comes to the world as a million- 
aire. I, for instance, as a child, have suffered more than once 
from hunger, and ” 

“ Carmen, be silent,” said the banker, sternly you’ll spoil 
myappetite if you talk so.” 

“ I should think your appetite would be stilled by this time. 
What you have digested would have fed an army.” 

Larsagny did not answer. He was busy eating an Edam 
cheese, and not until all the plates were empty did he lay his 
knife and fork on the table, and, breathing more freely, he said: 

“So, now I can stand it for a little while.” 

Carmen rang the bell. The table was cleared off, and as soon 
as the servant ha*d brought the cigarettes and cigars, the girl 
winked to him to leave. 


146 THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO.] 

Carmen lit a cigarette, and, leaning back in her chair, she 
said: 

“ I have something important to say to you.” 

‘ ‘ What is it ?” asked Larsagny. 

“Oh! different things,” replied Carmen. 

“ About money? Do not be timid.” 

“ It is not about money, but about an information.” 

“An information?” asked the banker. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Eeally, Carmen, you are speaking in riddles to-day ” 

“ Which you will, I hope, solve for me,” interrupted the young 
lady, dryly. “In the first place, what is the meaning of your 
gigantic appetite ?” 

“Ah! that’s very simple; I am hungry.” 

“ That isn’t it. I have seen a great many hungry people. In 
fact I have often suffered from hunger when mother had no 
money to buy bread.” 

“ Carmen, how often have I told you that I do not^like these 
reminiscences.” 

“Why not? Take an example from me, and tell me a little 
of your past.” 

“ Enough — enough!” cried Larsagny, growing pale. 

“ Answer my questions, and then you shall have quiet.” 

“Carmen, are you bothering yourself and me unnecessarily. 
I give you the assurance ” 

“As if your assurances had the slightest value for me,” inter- 
rupted Carmen. 

Larsagny smiled in a sickly fashion. 

“Carmen, you are childish,” he said. “I should think you 
ought to have known me by this time to ” 

“To be able to hate you thoroughly. You have cheated me 
of my youth and innocence.” 

“ Carmen, for God’s sake, not so loud; suppose some one heard, 
you,” cried the banker, anxiously. 

“ What do I care. You are a baron, live in Florence, and 
have a good housekeeper, whose only joy is her eighteen-year-old 
daughter. One night the mother is away. The baron uses the 
opportunity to take advantage of the young girl. When the 
mother returns the next day and learns the truth, she becomes 
so frightened that she falls dead on the spot. The unhappy girl 
tries to throw herself in the river, but is prevented from doing 
so, and finally becomes the mistress of the villain.” 

“ Carmen!” 

“Yes, yes, I know I am no better than you. Monsieur de 
Larsagny, tell me why do you not make me your wife ?” 

“My God, because ” " 

“ Well? Why do you pause? Do you know what I believe? 
You are a married man with a dreadful past!” 

“ Carmen, you are doing me an injury.” 

“ Ha! ha! If I do you a wrong, I am at the most too easy 
with you.” 

“ Carmen, what is the matter with you?” exclaimed Larsag* 


THE SON OF mONTE-CRISTO. 147 

ny, in despair, ‘‘ only yesterday you were so affectionate, and 
now ” 

“Bah! Yesterday is yesterday, and to-day is to-day. Either 

I find out from you who you really are, or ” 

“Oi-r 

“Or I shall find out myself, and should I discover that you 
have committed some unpunished crime, I shall denounce you, 
even though you took revenge upon me for it.” 

Larsagny had sprung up, and looking at Carmen in amaze- 
ment, he stammered: 

‘ ‘ You — would — dare — to do — that ?” 

“Yes. And if you look at yourself in the glass, you will see 
that my wildest declarations are far behind the reality. Your 
answer shines in every color.” 

“ Listen to me. Carmen,” said the banker, in a tender voice. 
“ It is time you dropped the subject. I am not an Adonis, and 
as you have rightly suspected, I have seen a great deal and gone 
through many troubles, but in spite of all that ” 

“Well, in spite of all that?” 

“ I do not deserve your unjust accusations. Can you, for in- 
stance, reproach me for the hunger which bothers me contin- 
ually ?” 

“ No, only 1 should like to learn the cause.” 

“ The cause ?” repeated Larsagny. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then listen. I will tell you everything, even though you 
should laugh at me: Years ago I was traveling in Italy, and as 
I had a large sum of money in my pocket, I was attacked by 
robbers. The wretches locked me in a cell and let me starve. 
One day I asked for food, and to mock me they made the ban- 
dit who guarded me eat his meal in my presence. 

“ ‘Can I get a meal here?’ I asked of the bandit, who was 
swallowing some peas. 

“‘Is your excellency hungry?’ asked the fellow (his name 
was Peppino) in surprise. 

I was angry. 

“ ‘ What!’ I exclaimed in a rage, ‘since twenty-four hours I 
have not eaten a thing, and you ask me if I am hungry.’ 

“ ‘ Then you wish to eat ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, at once, if it is possible.’ 

“ ‘ If you pay for it.’ • 

“ ‘ I will pay what you ask,’ I cried. 

“ ‘ What do you wish ?' 

“ ‘Anything, a chicken or a partridge.’ 

“ ‘ Good. Let us say a chicken.’ 

“ ‘ But have you a cook here?’ 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ nodded the bandit, and, raising his voice, he 
cried: ‘ A chicken for the gentleman.’ 

“ Ten minutes later a chicken w^as brought in by a waiter in a 
frock suit. For a moment I thought I was in the Cafe de Paris. 

“ I ate the chicken with my eyes, and asked for a knife and fork. 
Peppino gave them to me, but just as I was about to attack the 
chicken, he held my hand and said: 


148 


THE SON OF 3I0NTE^CRIST0. 


“ ‘ Pardon me, 3^ our excellency, but we get paid here before 
things are eaten/ 

“ I looked at him in astonishmeut. 

“ ‘ What does the chicken cost?’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Five thousand louisd’ors, or one hundred thousand francs.’ 

“ ‘ Are you crazy? one hundred thousand francs for a chicken ?’ 
“ ‘ Your excellency is not aware how hard it is to get chickens 
in this neighborhood.”* 

“ Well, and how did the matter end ?’' asked Carmen. 

“ I sent the chicken back, and asked for a piece of bread. It 
was brought to me by Battista, another bandit, on a silver salver. 
“ ‘ How dear is the bread?’ I asked, trembling. 

“ ‘ One hundred thousand francs.’ 

“ ‘ What! A piece of bread one hundred thousand francs?’ I 
cried in amazement. 

“ ‘ One hundred thousand francs.’ 

‘‘ ‘ But you asked no more for the chicken?’ 

“ ‘ Prices here are fixed,’ replied Peppino; ‘ pay and you can 
eat.’ 

* But with what should I pay?’ I cried in desperation; ‘ the 
money I have with me ’ 

“ ‘ is your whole fortune,’ interrupted Peppino. ‘You have 
five million and fifty thousand francs in your portfolio in drafts, 
and you can get fifty chickens and a half for it.’ 

“ I was astounded. The robbers knew exactly how much mon- 
ey I had, and I saw I had either to pay or to starve. 

“ ‘ Will I be able to eat in silence ?’ I asked, ‘ if I pay ?’ 

“ ‘ Certainly.’ 

“ ‘ Good, then bring me some writing materials.’ 

“I wrote out a draft on Pome for one hundred thousand 
francs, and received the chicken.” 

“ What was their motive?” asked Carmen. 

“ Merely to plunder and blackmail me.” 

“ Then they demanded more ?” asked Carmen. 

“ Oh, no. After I had eaten the chicken, I felt thirsty. I called 
Peppino and told him. 

“ ‘ You wish to drink something?’ he asked. 

“ ‘ Yes. I am dying with thirst.’ 

“ ‘ I am very sorry to hear it. The wine this year is very bad 
and very dear.’ 

“ ‘ Then bring me water,’ I cried. 

“ ‘ Oh, water is still dearer.’ 

“ ‘ Then give me a glass of wine.’ 

“ ‘ We only sell by the bottle.’ 

“ ‘ Then bring me a bottle of Orreto.’ 

“‘Directly.’ 

“ ‘And the wine costs?’ 

“ ‘ Twenty-five thousand francs per bottle.' 

“ ‘ Swindler! Robber!’ I cried, beside myself. 

“ ‘ Do not talk so loud, master might hear you/ 

“ ‘ I don’t care. Who is your piaster ?’ 

“ ‘ Luigi Vampa.' 


THE SON OF 3{0NTE^CIiIST0, 


149 


“ ‘ Can I speak to him ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“Peppino went away, and two minutes later a slimly built, 
fine-looking man, wdth dark hair and eyes, stood before me! 

“ ‘ You want to speak to me?’ he asked, politely. 

“‘Are you the chief of the people who brought me here?’ 

I said. 

“ ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘ What ransom do you wish of me?’ 

“ ‘ Only the five million francs you possess.’ 

“ ‘ Take my life,’ I cried, ‘ but leave me my money.’ 

“ ‘Your life don’t do us any good,’ replied the bandit, but 
your money would.’ 

“ ‘ Take a million then ?’ 

“ ‘No.’ 

“‘Two?’ 

“‘No.’ 

“ ‘ Three?’ 

“ ‘ No.’ 

“ ‘Four?’ 

“ ‘ We leave haggling to usurers.’ 

“ ‘ Then take everything from me and kill me,’ I cried in de- 
spair. 

“ ‘ We do not wish to do that.’ 

“ ‘ And suppose I die of hunger ?’ 

“ ‘ Then we are not responsible for that.’ 

“ ‘ Keep your wine and I will keep my money.’ 

“ ‘ Just as you please,’ laughed Vampa, and went away. 

“ Two days later I asked for food. A fine dinner was served. I 
paid a million and stilled my hunger. This continued three days 
longer, and when I finally counted the contents of my portfolio, 
I found I had only fifty thousand francs left. I considered what 
I should do with this sum. and fell asleep over my plans. When 
I awoke, I was on the road to Rome. When I suddenly looked 
at myself in a mirror, I found to my horror that my hair had 
turned gray. Since that time I have always feared that I would 
never have sufficient to eat, and now you kiiow the cause of my 
ravenous appetite.” 

“ Yet I cannot understand wffiy they should have 'wanted to 
torture you so. It must have been an act of revenge,” said 
Carmen. 

“You are mistaken.” replied Larsagny, “I fear no one and 
every one esteems me; I ” 

“ One moment,” interrupted Carmen as she looked fixedly at 
the banker. “ Why did you get frightened at the soiree recent- 
ly, when the servant announced the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo ? 
I thought you feared no one, baron?” 

Larsagny stared at the young girl as if she had been a specter. 
Carmen continued ; 

“ I have not finished yet. In the evening I stood on the ter- 
race and heard these words: 

“ ‘ Monsieur de Larsagny, take care you do not learn my name 
too soon.’ ” 


150 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


“ Ah, you are spying on me,” cried Larsagny angrily; “ have a 
care or ” 

“ I do not fear you,” said Carmen, calmly; “ I will be the first 
to urge your punishment, if some suspicious circumstance 
should arise and ” 

“Be silent, wretched creature,” cried Larsagny angrily, “ be 
silent or ” 

He grasped a knife and rushed upon Carmen. The latter 
stared at him in such a way that he dropped the weapon and 
stammered: 

“Carmen, you will drive me crazy!” 

At this moment the door opened, and the servant brought in a 
card which he handed to Larsagny. 

“ The gentleman is waiting in the parlor, ’ he said; “ will the 
baron receive him ?” 

Before Larsagny could throw a look at the card, Carmen had 
grasped it. 

“ Signor Fagiano,” she read aloud, and as the banker with 
trembling voice said he would be down, she winked to the serv- 
ant to go away, and then mockingly said: 

“Signor Fagiano has no doubt come to tell the baron his 
name. Good luck to him!” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

RECOLLECTIONS. 

Signor Fagiano stood in the beautiful parlor, and a malicious 
smile played about his lips. 

The banker entered now. The scene in the painter s garden 
would not vanish from his mind. Fagiano had approached him 
then and triumphantly whispered: 

“ Monsieur de Larsagny, I know your past.” 

Larsagny had uttered a cry of terror. 

“ If I am to remain silent,” Fagiano had added, “ I must have 
money.” 

“ But who are you ?” 

Whereupon the answer had come: 

“ Take care that you do not find out my name too soon.” 

With inward fear the banker approached the Italian co-day. 

“ Signor Fagiano, what brings you here to-day? This is the 
second time that you have crossed my path, and I hope it will 
be the last. I do nOt know you, you do not know me, and I can- 
not understand to what I am indebted for the honor of your 
visit. I am very patient, but everything has its limits, and only 
the position I occupy prevents me from throwing you out.” 

“Call your servants, Monsieur de Larsagny. 1 have no fear of 
publicity,” said Fagiano, boldly. 

The banker grasped the bell-rope, but let his hand fall again, 
and Fagiano, who noticed this, mockingly observed: 

“ Why do you hesitate? Would you rather prefer to finish 
our interview without witnesses ?” 

“ Impudent puppy!” hissed Larsagny. 

‘ ‘ Do not get excited! Let us come to the point.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO. 151 

“ I am waiting for that a long time,” growled Larsagny; ‘‘tell 
me, first of all, who are you ?” 

Fagiano drew nearer to the banker, and grinning, said: 

“ You really do not recognize me?” 

“ No.” 

The Italian laughed loudly. 

“ Then give me two hundred thousand francs,” said Fagiano, 
‘‘ and I will disappear forever.” 

•• I would be a fool to give an unknown person a single penny.” 

“ You realiv do not know my name, then ?” 

“ No.” 

“ H’m; but 1 know yours.” 

“ That isn’t a great thing. My name is known on the street 
and at court.” 

“Yes, the name of Larsagny; as Monsieur Danglars you are 
also known, though in a different way.” 

Larsagny trembled and was about to fall. 

“ You lie,” he hissed. 

“What would you say if I told your sovereign that the man 
he put at the head of the syndicate is only one of that crowd of 
unhanged thieves who roam about in the" world ?” 

“ Wretch, you will say nothing of the kind,” cried Danglars 
(for it was really he), and putting his hand in his breast pocket 
he drew forth a revolver and held it at the Italian’s breast. 

“Softly, softly,” said Fagiano, as he took the weapon away 
from the banker and put it in his pocket. “A little while ago 
I asked for two hundred thousand francs, now I must increase 
my demand to half a million.” 

“ You are a fool,” said Danglars, pale with rage. “ You will 
never get a cent from me.” 

“ Have no fear about that; as soon as I threaten to expose you 
you will submit; I have some piquant details in petto 

“ What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, I will announce your name at the same time as 
mine.” 

“ What has that got to do with me?” 

“ More than you think. Don’t you really know me ?” 

“ No.” 

“So much the worse. But tell me, baron, is Carmen really 
your daughter?” 

“ But — who — gives — you — the right ” said Danglars, stam- 

mering. 

“ Next you will deny that you ever had a wife?” 

“Leave my wife’s name alone.” 

“ Good. Then let us talk of your daughter who is much older 
and does not bear the name of Carmen.” 

Danglars hid his face in his hands. 

“ Baron, you are the friend of the emperor and are very rich, 
and no one suspects that Baron Larsagny is the former forger 
and swindler Danglars. One word from me and you sink deep 
in the mud. It depends on you whether I am to oe your friend 
or your enemy.” 


152 


THE SON OF MONTEXHISTO. 


“Ah, now I know who you are,” said the banker, springing 
up. “You are Andrea Cavalcanti.” 

‘ Right ” laughed Fagiano. 

“ Now I remember. You put a title to your name, played the 
heir of a great fortune, and entered into near relations with my 
family. An impudence which the avenging arm of the law 
punished.” 

“Yes, I am Benedetto the murderer — Benedetto the criminal; 
but do you know who my father was ?” 

“Yes, I heard about the scandalous trial; I was not in France 
at the time but Go on, you,” urged Danglars. 

“ And do you also know the name of my mother, baron?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, then, my mother was — the Baroness Danglars.” 

“ The miserable creature — the wretch I” cried Danglars, hoarse- 
ly, “ but no — ^you lie, it cannot be so.” 

“She was my mother,” said Benedetto, accenting the word 
teas, 

“ She was? Is she dead?” asked Danglars, softly. 

“Yes, I killed her.” 

“ Horrible,” groaned Danglars, wringing his hands. 

“ If you want proofs,” continued Benedetto, coldly, “here they 
are.” 

He took Anselmo's writing out of his pocket and handed it to 
the banker. 

“ Read,” he said, indifferently. 

“What do you want from me?” murmured Danglars, 
hoarsely. 

“ First, money, and then let us talk further.” 

“ You shall have what you want,” replied Danglars. 

“ Good; now comes the second point.” 

“ Do not torture me any longer,” said Danglars. 

“ Have you forgotten who it was that humiliated you, trod 
you in the dust?” said Benedetto, laying his hand on the bank- 
er’s shoulder; “that man is your bad genius as well as mine. It 
was the Count of Monte-Cristo who taught me the pleasures of 
life only to throw me back to the Bagnio again. Since I have 
been free I dream of revenge against him. I know the spot 
where he is mortal. Can I count on your support ?” 

“ Yes, but I fear our attempts will be fruitless.” 

“ Fruitless? I swear to you that we shall be successful.” 

“But he is a supernatural man. You might as well attack 
God.” 

“ And yet he has an Achilles heel! Once more, will you help 
me ?” 

“ Yes; but I do not understand you.” 

“ The whole of the Count of Monte-Cristo’s affection is cen- 
tered in his son, and through this son we must strike him. He 
shall suffer all the tortures of hell, and in his son, whom he 
idolizes, we shall punish him.” 

“Now I understand you,” said Danglars. 

“In the first place you must give me money, and then wait 
until I call you,” 


TBE SON OP MONTE^CRIStO. 


158 


‘‘ And you guarantee that the grief will kill him ?” 

“ Yes, J guarantee it.” 

“ Then I am yours.” 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

DISAPPEARED. 

Let us return to the Vicomte Spero. 

Three days had passed since Jane Zild had been taken to the 
elegant house. She still lay motionless and pale, and Madame 
Caraman never left her bedside. 

A slight moan from the invalid caused Mamma Caraman to 
bend over her. 

“ Poor child,” she sorrowfully murmured, “ she looks as if she 
were going to die. God knows what way she got the wound — I 
always fear that she herself has sent the bullet through her 
heart.” 

Jane moaned louder and felt her heart with her hand. 

“ Still, my dear,” whispered Mamma Caraman, and poured a 
few drops of liquor into a cup and told the girl to drink it. 

“No, I will not drink!” said Jane, passionately. 

“ Leave me, I do not want to live,” she suddenly cried; “oh, 
why did you take the weapon from me? I cannot live with this 
pressure on the breast. The horrible secret pulls me to the 
ground — I am sinking — I am sinking! Ah, and she was never- 
theless my mother — I loved her so — I love her yet.” 

With tears in her eyes Mamma Caraman tried to quiet the ex- 
cited girl, but she cordd not do so. She pressed lightly on a 
silver bell which stood near the bed. 

In less than five minutes the vicomte appeared. 

‘ “Is she worse ?” he anxiously asked. 

“Yes, she is feverish again, and I thought it might be better 
to send for a physician.” 

Spero drew near to the invalid’s couch and took her arm to 
feel her pulse. Strange to say, Jane became calmer as soon as 
he touched her. The wild-looking eyes lost their frightened look; 
the lips which had muttered disconnected words, closed, and the 
small hands lay quietly on the silk cover. 

“She is sleeping,” said Mamma Caraman, “I am sorry now 
that I called you.” 

“ On the contrary I am glad I came. I will take your place 
and you can sleep a little.” 

“ Not for the world,” cried Mamma Caraman, “ I am not tired 
at all.” 

“That is very funny; since three weeks you haven’t closed 
an eye,” said the vicomte; “ lie down for an hour. Mamma Cara- 
man, I promise to call you as soon as the invalid stirs.” 

Mamma Caraman thereupon laid herself upon a sofa, and the 
next minute she was fast asleep. 

An hour later the young girl opened her eyes and looked about 
her. 

“ Where am I?” she murmured. 

“With me — under my protection,” replied Spero, and pressing 


154 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO, 


Jane’s hand to his lips he added, “ Ah Jane, why did you wish 
to die ? Did you not know that your soul would take mine 
along ?” 

The young girl listened as if in a dream, and unconsciously 
looked at the vicomte with sparkling eyes. 

“Jane, before I saw you I haven’t lived,” continued Spero, 
“but now I know that life is worth living for, and I thank God 
that he allowed me to find you.” 

A smile of pleasure flitted across Jane’s lips. She did not speak, 
but Spero felt a warm pressure of the hand, and enthusiastically 
cried: 

“ Jane, T lov,e you — love you dearly; Jane, my darling, tell me 
only once that you love me!” 

Jane looked silently at him and then buried her face in her 
hands, faintly murmuring: 

“ Yes, Spero, I love you.” 

“ Thanks, my darling, for that word, and now I will leave you. 
Good-night, Jane — ^my Jane — oh, how I love you!” 

The vicomte left the room and Jane closed her tired eyes. 

Suddenly the heavy drapery which covered the door leading 
to the corridor was thrown aside, a man’s form issued there* 
from, and his sparkling eyes gazed at Ihe two women. 

The man took a vial out of his pocket, and dropping the con- 
tents on a piece of white cloth, he held it to Jane’s lips. Jane 
breathed fainter and fainter — then her breathing ceased — her 
arms sank by her side — her cheeks became pale as death. 

The man watched these terrible chaijges without the slightest 
Jgn of anxiety. Bending down he wrapped her tightly in the 
silk cover and carried her out of the room in his muscular arms, 
while Mamma Caraman slept tightly and Spero was dreaming. 

The reader will remember that Firejaws, who has died in the 
meantime, once jokingly compared Fanfaro to a Newfoundland 
dog as he found means everywhere to rescue some one. 

Fanfare’s presence in Paris is soon explained. His wife and 
his two children could not stand the Algerian climate long, and 
so they all came to Paris. Monte- Cristo had begged him to keep 
an eye on Spero. Since the count’s departure not a day had 
passed but what either Fanfaro or his faithful Bobichel watched 
every movement of the vicomte, and also the night the young 
man and the painter were walking in the Champs -Ely sees, the 
former clown had followed them as far as the Rue Montaigne. 
Bobichel then went home. 

It was three o’clock when he silently opened the street door. 
To his surprise Fanfaro met him as he entered, and told him 
that as he could not work he thought he would take a walk. 
Bobichel immediately declared that he would accompany him. 
It was in this way that they had rescued Anselmo and the old 
woman. Fanfaro very soon found out that the old lady was 
crazy. Fanfaro believed that there was some connection be- 
tween the two persons he had saved from a watery grave, and 
Bobichel thought so too. 

The crazy woman sometimes became terribly excited. In 


SON^ OF 310NTF-CRIST0, 165 

such moments she sprang out of the bed, and hiding behind the 
door silently whined: 

“ Spare me — I am your mother!” 

Irene in such moments tried in vain to quiet her. When the 
physician examined her, he found a blood- red scar on her bosom, 
which, no doubt, came from a knife stab. 

On the night of the third day after the rescue, Fanfaro sat at 
Anselmo’s bedside. Bobiched had disappeared since forty-eight 
hours to make inquiries about Spero. Fanfaro heard through 
him that Spero had not left the Monte-Cristo palace for three 
days, and could not imagine what was the cause of it. 

Anselmo now began to groan. Fanfaro bent over the invalid, 
and thought he heard the words: 

“ My daughter — my poor child — ah, is she dead ?” 

“Who is dead?” asked Fanfaro. 

“Ah, she plunged into the water — she is drowned,” groaned 
Anselmo. 

Fanfaro could not believe his ears; did the sick man imagine 
that the gray haired woman was his daughter ? 

“ Have you a daughter ?” he asked. 

“ Yes, my Jane — my darling.” 

Just then the door opened, and Bobichel entered. 

“Well ?” cried Fanfaro expectantly. 

“Ah, Fanfaro, a^reat misfortune!” 

“ A misfortune ? Does it concern the vicomte ?” 

“Yes; he has disappeared.” 

“ But, Bobichel, why should that be a misfortune? Perhaps 
he went on a short journey.” 

“ No, both Coucou and Madame Caraman maintain that his 
disappearance is a misfortune.” 

“ Tell me all that has happened.” 

“Then listen. On the evening that the vicomte came back 
from the soiree, he did not go home directly, but first took an 
opportunity to rescue a wounded girl.” 

“ A wounded girl?” repeated Fanfaro. 

“Yes, a young girl who had been shot in the breast. She was 
brought by the vicomte to his house.” 

“ I can hardly believe it,” muttered Fanfaro. 

“ Madame Garaman and Coucou are in the corridor; they will 
confirm my statement.” 

“ Bring them in.” 

The next minute the Zouave and Caraman were in the room. 

“ The fault is mine! Ah, 1 will never forgive myself,” cried 
Mamma Caraman, wringing her hands, and then she went on and 
told how Spero and Gontram had brought the wounded girl into 
the house, the care that had been taken of her, and how, at the 
suggestion of the vicomte, she had laid down on the sofa to rest 
for an hour. 

“ When I awoke,” she continued, “ it was broad daylight. On 
going over to the bed where the young girl lay, I found, to my 
surprise, that it was empty. I went to the vicomte’s room and 
told him the girl had disappeared. The vicomte, without saying 
a word, hutried out of tlie house in a state of great excitement. 


156 


THE SON OF MONTE-CBISTO, 


Twenty-four hours have passed since then, and he has not been 
back since, and ” 

“ What Tbot hers me most,” interrupted Coucou, ‘Ms the fact 
that the vicomte took his pistols along.” 

Fanfaro became pensive. 

“Have you any idea how the young girl was wounded?” 
he asked after a pause, turning to Madame Caraman. 

“ No, but Monsieur Sabran knows.” 

“ The painter? I shall go to him directly.” 

“We were in his house already, but he has not been home 
since this morning.” 

“ That is bad,” murmured Fanfaro. “ Do you know the lady’s 
name ?” 

“ No, but I found this note in her pocket. If it is addressed 
to the young girl, then her name is Jane,” said Mamma Caraman, 
handing Fanfaro an elegant little note. 

“ Dear Mademoiselle Jane,” Fanafro read, and, penetrated by a 
recollection, he repeated aloud: 

“ Jane — Mademoiselle Jane — if it is — but no — it can't be possi- 
ble ” 

A loud cry from the invalid’s couch made him pause, An- 
selmo had gotten up, and gazing at Fanfaro, he stammeringly 
repeated; 

“ Jane — my Jane.” 

“ Do you know the young lady?” cried Fanfaro. 

“ Certainly. Then it wasn’t her. whom I rescued from the 
river ?” 

“ No, but for God’s sake calm yourself,” said Fanfaro, as he 
saw Anselmo make a motion to spring out of bod. 

“ I could have imagined that the return of that scoundrel, 
Benedetto, would bring me misfortune I” cried Anselmo, with 
flaming eyes. 

“ Benedetto — who speaks of Benedetto ?” asked a hoarse 
voice. 

All turned in the direction from whence the words came. 
At the door stood the crazy woman. When Anselmo caught 
sight of her, he uttered a terrible cry. 

“ Merciful God, where does she come from?” he groaned in 
terror. “ Has the grave given up its dead ?” 

The crazy woman drew near to him, and grazed his forehead 
with her bony hand. She laughed aloud, and in a heart-rending 
voice exclaimed: 

“ The galley-slave — he — Toulon — the Ba^io — oh! ’tis he!” 

Anselmo trembled, and <;ould not turn his eyes away from the 
old lady, who now wildly called; 

“Benedetto! Who mentioned his name? I want to know 
it!” 

“ What can this mean?” whispered Fanfaro, shuddering. 

“ I will acknowledge everything,” stammered Anselmo, and 
hanging his head down he told how he had been a galley-slave 
at Toulon. 

“Who wounded you?” he then asked, turning to the crazy 
woman. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRTSTO. 


157 


‘‘ My son — he was called Benedetto! Ha! ha! ha! Who 
could have given him that name? I do not know, for I thought 
the child was dead, and his father buried him alive in the 
garden. Benedetto — Benedetto,” she suddenly cried, “come 
and kill me — I cannot live with this bleeding wound in my 
heart !” 

Fanfaro hurried out of the room in search of his wife and 
Irene’s entreaties had the effect of causing the invalid to follow 
her. They had already reached the threshold when the old lady 
paused, and turning to Fanfaro, hastily said: 

“ He has forgiven me long ago, and will not punish me any 
more. God sent him to the earth to reward and punish, and he 
has punished them all — all with their own sins. Do you know 
him? It is the Count of Monte-Cristo !” 

She left the room and those who had remained behind looked 
confused at one another. 

“ I did not understand everything,” said Anselmo, faintly; 
“ but what I know I shall confess. Benedetto is a scoundrel and 
a murderer, and it was he who stabbed his own mother, this 
poor crazy woman. He is at present in Paris, where he came 
expressly to revenge himself upon the Count of Monte-Cristo. ” 

“ Do you know it positively,” asked Fanfaro uneasily. 

Anselmo then related all he knew and only kept silent with 
regard to the fact of his being Jane’s father. 

Fanfaro listened attentively to his wonls, and then said: 

“ I shall inform the Count of Monte-Cristo of this. In three 
days he will be here. You, Anselmo,” he added, turning to the 
ex-convict, “are too weak and sick to take part in our work, but 
we shall keep you informed if anything important turns up, 
and ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” interrupted Anselmo, “ do not leave me 
behind. Let us go at once, every minute is precious! Oh, God, 
if she lives no more!” 

“ Let us hope for the best,” said Fanfaro, earnestly; “forward 
then with God for Monte-Cristo and his son!’’ 

“ And for my Jane,” muttered Anselmo to himself; “God in 
heaven take my life, but save hers!” 


CHAPTER XL. 

A CONFESSION. 

Gontram was in love; night and day he only thought of Car- 
men. 

“ Either she or no one,” he said to himself. 

One morning, as he was returning home from a visit, the jan- 
itor addressed him. 

“ Monsieur Sabran,” he said, “ I have something to tell you.” 

“Well, what is it?” asked Gontram, expectantly. 

“H’m, Monsieur Sabran, it is about a lady,” murmured the 
man. 

“A lady? Which lady?” 

“ I do not know her, and my discretion did not permit me to 
ask her,” 


158 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


Gontram, in spite of his impatience, laughed. He knew the 
janitor to be the most inquisitive person in the world, and judged 
his discretion accordingly. 

Monsieur Alain, won’t you tell me what the lady wanted of 
me ?” asked the painter. 

“The lady was elegantly dressed, and asked me whether you 
were at home. When I told her you were not, she took a letter 
from" her pocket and told me to give it to you at once.” 

“ Where is the letter?” 

“ Here, Monsieur Sabran,” said the janitor, taking a perfumed 
note from his pocket and handing it to the painter. 

The latter hastily tore it from his hand, and went back-to his 
residence. In his study he threw his gloves and hat on the ta- 
ble, and looked at the note from all sides. It was signed “ Car- 
men,” and ran as follows: 

“Monsieur Gontram — Or may I say, my dear friend,— I 
would like to speak to you about a matter of some importance, 
and beg you to visit mf3 this evening. I expect you at seven 
o’clock. Ring the garden bell. Be punctual. It concerns the 
fate of those you love. Carmen.” 

What did Carmen mean by the expression, “ The fate of those 
you love?” What did she know of his connections? Why 
should he have to go to the back-door ? How came it that Car- 
men asked him to meet her in this peculiar manner? 

Punctually at seven o’clock the painter was at the gardeu- 
gate, and with a trembling hand Gontram pulled the bell-rope, 
and was immediately let in by a maid. 

“The lady is waiting,” she said. 

The maid opened the door of a charming boudoir and allowed 
Gontram to enter. With his hat in his hand, the painter «tood 
still in the center of the room. The door was now opened, and 
Carmen, simply attired in black silk, entered. She was pale, 
but extremely handsome, and Gontram looked admiringly at 
her. 

“Thank you,” she said, offering her hand to the painter. “ I 
hardly dared to hope you would come.” 

“ You sent for me, and I have come,” replied Gontram. 

“ Please sit dowm and listen to me.” 

Gontram took a seat next to Carmen. 

“Monsieur Gontram, do you love me ?” she suddenly asked. 

Gontram trembled. 

“Mademoiselle Carmen,” he earnestly said, “I will answer 
your question candidly. Yes, I love you, love you w^armly and 
tenderly, and if I have hesitated to tell you so, it w^as because I 
did not think myself w’orthy of you. I ” 

“ Oh, keep still — keep still!” 

. “ But, Mademoiselle Carmen,’ said Gontram, “you know" you 
can rely on me!” 

For a time they were both silent. 

“ Listen to me,” she finally said; “ I hope you will not mis- 
understand me. Monsieur Gontram, I know that you are a 
brave, honest man; wdien you kissed me on the little teiTac^ 


THE SON OF MONTE^CRISTO. 159 

three days ago, I felt that you regarded it as a — silent engage- 
ment?” 

“Yes!” cried Gontram. 

“And yet,” said Carmen, slowly, “ you postponed asking Mon- 
sieur de Larsagny for my hand.” 

“ I did not dare ” 

“Thank God that you did not doit,’ cried Carmen, breath- 
ing more freely. “ No, Gontram, I can never — never be your 
wife!” 

Gontram sprang up. 

“ Impossible, Carmen!” he cried, passionately. “ Tell me that 
you are joking!” 

“No, Gontram, I am not joking,” said Carmen, earnestly: 
“ I can never become your wife. Only an honest girl has the 
right to put her hand in your’s.” 

“Explain yourself more clearly,” said Gontram, deadly pale. 

“ Gontram, I love you, love you tenderly, and if ever there 
was a pure love, it is mine for you. Before I made your ac- 
quaintance I went carelessly through life. Good and bad were 
unknown meanings to me, and I did not know what blushing 
was.” 

Carmen sank exhausted in a chair and burst into tears. 

“Carmen, for what do you cry ?” 

“ Gontram, these tears are for me —for my lost youth — my 
tainted soul,” whispered Carmen. “ Oh, Gontram, I am not 
what I appear to be. I am not the daughter, but the friend of 
Monsieur de Larsagny!” 

Gontram uttered a wild cry, and, beating his face with his 
hands, he gasped for air; the shot had struck him to the heart. 

“Yes, it is the truth,” continued Carmen; “I am the friend 
of an old man. Ah, Gontram, how have I struggled with my- 
self before I found courage enough to inform you of this.” 

Carmen had fallen to the floor, and, clutching Gontram’^ 
knee, she wept bitterly. 

Gontram felt deep pity for her. He placed his hand on her 
hair, and gently said : 

“ Carmen, the confession I have just heard has shocked me 
very much; but, at the same time, it has also pleased me. That 
you did not wish to hear me, before you told me your story, 
raises you in my estimation, and let him who is without sin cast 
tlie first stone!” 

“ You do not curse me? do not cast me off?” asked Carmen, 
in surprise. 

“Carmen, God knows your confession t})re my heart, but, the 
more painful the blow was, the more I comprehended the great 
extent of my love for you.” 

Carmen’s tears still poured down. Gontram bent over her 
and tenderly raised her up. 

“Carmen,” he earnestly said, “tell me, what can I do for 
you ?” 

Carmen raised her eyes which were still full of tears and 
tenderly whispered to the young mail? 


IGO 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO 


“How good you are! Do you love the Vicomte of Monte- 
Cristo?” she suddenly asked. 

“ I love and esteem him. But what makes you speak of the 
vicomte ?” 

“ Because danger threatens him, and I want you to warn 
him.” 

“ What is the nature of the danger ?” asked Gontram. 

“ Powerful enemies are united against him, and if we do not 
be more prudent they will crush both him and us.” 

“ Enemies! who could be an enemy of Spero ?” 

“ One of the enemies is Monsieur de Larsagny!” 

“ And the other?” 

“ Have you noticed the Count of Vellini’s secretary?” 

“ Signor Fagiano ? Yes, I know him.” 

“ Fagiano is not his real name.” 

“ Do you know it?” 

“ Not yet, but I hope to very soon. Signor Fagiano and 
Monsieur Larsagny have met before. When the Vicomte of 
Monte Cristo was announced at your soiree the other evening. 
Monsieur de Larsagny became pale as death, his eyes stared at 
the young man as if he had been a specter, and under pretense 
of seeking a cooler spot, he hurriedly left the roopa. ’ 

“ Yes, I remember,” said Gontram. 

“ As you know shortly afterward we went out on the terrace 
and heard two voices quarreling. One of the voices said: 
‘ Monsieur de Larsagny, take care that you doSnotJknow my name 
too soon.’ The next day I asked Monsieur de Larsagny about it, 
but he gave me evasive replies. Just then the visit of Signor 
Fagiano was announced and our conversation ended. That day 
I learned nothing, but two days later, when Signor Fagiano 
came again. I hid behind the drapery and listened. Don’t think 
bad of me that I did such a thing, but there was no other choice. 
As soon as the two exchanged their first words, I saw at once 
they were partners in crime. T heard the Italian say: 

“ * I have done the preliminary steps, and guarantee the success 
of the plan. Revenge is assured for us, but I must have some 
more money.’ 

“ ‘ Here is what I promised you,’ replied Larsagny, 

“ I heard the crumpling of bank-notes. For a while all was 
still, and then Monsieur de Larsagny said: 

“ ‘ What do you intend to do now ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I have already struck the young fool a blow,* replied 
the Italian. ‘ She is in my power, and it will be easy for me to 
entrap him.’ 

“ ‘ But be careful, the slightest haste might ruin us.' 

“ ‘ The Vicomte of Monte-Cristo shall suffer; he shall crawl an<^ 
bend in tortures I shall prepare for him, and my plans are so 
made that the law cannot reach us.' 

“ ‘ Then I am satisfied. Ah, if he only suffers for one hour the 
tortures his father made me undergo,’ hissed Larsagny 

“ * You shall be satisfied. I have also a debt to settle with him.’ 

The conversation was now carried on m such a low tone that 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


101 


T could not understand what was being said. I hurried to nij 
room and made up my mind to draw you into my confidence.” 

“ I thank you, Carmen,” cried Gontram; “ Spero is a friend, 
a brother, and I would gladly offer up my life to save his.” 

“ Of whom could Fagiano have spoken when he said: ‘ She is 
in my power ?’ ” asked Carmen. 

“ I hardly know. God help the scoundrels if they touch a hair 
of his head.” Gontram had risen. He put his arm about the 
young girl’s waist, and gently drew her toward him. 

“Carmen,” he whispered, tenderly, “yOur confession was a 
bitter pill for me, but my love for you is the same as ever. Tell 
me once more that you love me, too!*’ 

“Oh, Gontram, I do not deserve so much kindness,” sobbed 
Carmen. 

“ Now good-bye,” said Gontram. “ You shall soon hear from 


A last kiss and they separated. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

ON. THE TRAIL. 

Half dreaming, Gontram strode through the streets. It was 
ten o’clock when the painter reached the Mont( -Cristo palace. 
To his surprise all was dark, and hesitatingly Gontram .pulled the 
bell. 

The footman opened it. When asked if the vicomte was at 
home, he said he had gone out. 

“Gone out? Will he soon return?” asked Gontram. 

“We do not know.” 

“ H’ml Can I speak to Madame Caraman?” 

“She is also out.” 

“And the Zouave Coucou ?” 

“ He has gone out, too; and none of them has yet returned.” 

Just then a carriage rolled up, and Madame Caraman and Cou- 
cou got out, followed by Fanfaro and Anselmo. 

“Ah, here is Monsieur Gontram,” cried Madame Caraman, 
joyfully, as she caught sight of the painter. 

“ That IS what I call luck,” said Fanfaro. “ Monsieur Gontram, 
allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fanfaro. I am an 
honest man, and devoted to the Count of Monte-Cristo and his 
son. I fear all is not right with our friends.” 

“ Why not? What has happened?” asked Gontram. 

“You shall soon find out, but first let us go inside.” 

With these words Fanfaro preceded the others and entered the 
vestibule. The footman ran to him and anxiously cried: 

“ Monsieur Fanfaro, the vicomte is not at home.” 

“ I know it.” 

Turning to Coucou, he said: 

' “ Can you remember when the vicomte left the house?” 

“ Last night.” 

“ About what time ?” 

“ I do not know, I was asleep.” 

“ And I too,” sobbed Madame Caraman, 


m 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


“ Coucou, please tell the footman to come here.” 

The footman came immediately. 

“ When. did Vicomte Spero leave the house?” asked Fanfaro, 
turning to the man. 

“ I — I — do not know,” stammered the footman. 

“ You do not know when the vicomte went out ?” 

I — that is— well, the vicomte did leave the house, but he re- 
turned within an hour.” 

“ Then he must be in the house?” they all repeated. 

“ 1 do not know. He has not left it.” 

“How do you know?” asked Coucou; “the vicomte might 
have gone out by way of the garden.” 

“That is not possible,” declared the footman. “ I locked the 
gate myself yesterday while the vicomte was in his study.” 

“ We must search every nook and corner,” said Gontram. 

“We shall do so,” said Fanfaro. “Anselmo can remain 
under Madame Caraman’s care, while Coucou can look in the 
garden and yard, and we in the house.” 

Coucou disappeared, but soon returned, accompanied by Bo- 
bichel. 

“ I am glad you’ve come, Bobichel,’^ exclaimed Fanfaro. “ We 
have some fine detective work to do here, and that was always 
your hobby.” 

“ What is it?” asked Bobichel. 

Fanfaro told him the whole story in a few words. 

In the meantime Gontram had learned from Mamma Cara- 
man that Jane Zild had disappeared, and the thought fiashed 
through his mind like lightning, that Signor Fagiano's remark, 
which Carmen had overheard, related to her. He told Fanfaro 
about it, and they both resolved to examine Jane’s room. 

“ There must be a third exit,” said Fanfaro; “ the vicomte, as 
well as Jane, have disappeared without the footman knowing 
anything about it. We can begin our work now, and may God 
grant that we find some trail.” 

Thereupon Fanfaro, Gontram, and Bobichel went to the room 
Jane had occupied. Gontram walked in advance, and soon all 
three stood in the beautifully furnished apartment. Bobichel 
crawled in every corner, and raised the heavy carpet which 
covered the fioor, to see if there were any secret stairs. Then he 
got on top of Fanfare’s shoulders and knocked at the ceiling. 
But all was in vain. Nothing could be discovered. 

Suddenly Fanfare’s eye rested on a small white spot in the 
blue, decorated wall. Drawing near to the spot, he saw that a 
small piece of white silk had been pressed in an almost imper- 
ceptible crack. 

“Bobichel, your knife.” cried Fanfaro, breathlessly. 

“ Master,” said Bobichel, modestly, “ there is a secret door 
there, and they generally have a spring attached to them.” 

“You are right,” replied Fanfaro, “but how discover the 
spring ?” 

“ I think,” remarked Gontram, “ that the spring is under one 
of the small blue buttons with which the wall is decorated. 
Let us search.” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CmSTO. 


163 


All three began to finger the numerous buttons, and finally 
Bobichel uttered a cry of triumph. He had turned a button 
aside and a little iron door noiselessly swung itself on its 
hinges. 

“There is the secret way in which Jane and Spero have dis- 
appeared,” cried Gontram; “ Jane has, no doubt, been abducted. 
The piece of white satin in the crack must have belonged to the 
bed-cover, for Madame Caraman told me the cover had dis- 
appeared at the same time as the girl. Spero knew of this exit 
and probably had reasons for leaving'the house secretly. Let us 
go the same way, and perhaps we may find out where the 
vicomte is.” 

“ So be it,” cried Fanfaro, “ and forward with God.” 

Gontram had in the meanwhile sent a note with Coucou to 
Carmen. 

Each one of the three carried a three -armed bronze lamp, and 
the light they gave forth illuminated the marble steps of a stair- 
case. 

Gontram was the first to reach the top stair. At the same 
moment a hollow noise was heard, and when the comrades 
turned around to find out the cause of it, they saw that the iron 
door had closed behind them. They tried in vain to open it 
again. It did not budge. 

“ We cannot return,” said Fanfaro finally, “ therefore forward 
with God’s help.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE TRAP. 

Madame Caraman and Coucou had not exaggerated when they 
said that the vicomte’s condition after Jane’s disappearance was 
terrible. He rushed about madly, and when he could not find 
the young girl, a deep despair took hold of him. 

The young man’s love for Jane was very great, and when he 
saw the young girl lying wounded, almost dying in his arms, 
the world faded from the sight of his intoxicated eyes. Either 
he must rescue her or go under himself. There was no third 
road for him. 

Madame Caraman’s information that Jane had disappeared 
paralyzed him. She must be sought for and found at any price, 
even though the world be torn in pieces for it. 

But the world did not tear; not an atom moved on his account, 
and deep night settled about Spero. One night as the vicomte 
was sitting in the room Jane had occupied, buried in thought, 
he saw the drapery move slowly and a part of the wall glide 
slowly back. 

In a moment he had sprung up and gone to the spot. A dark 
opening yawned before him, and as he knew not what fear was, 
he walked in the corridor which opened before him. Without 
hesitating he walked down the marble staircase, the door closed 
behind him, and he found himself alone on strange ground. 

After Spero had gone down twenty steps he found himself on 
level ground. He went further and further, and finally stood at 


164 


THE SON OF 3fONTE-ClHSTO. 


the foot of a staircase wliich led toward the left. Without tak- 
ing time to consider he ascended it and soon stood before a 
door— he put his hand on the knob and it opened. 

A room furnished in dark red silk lay before the vicomte. 

On a black marble table Spero espied an open letter. 

The Count of Monte-Cristo had always seen to it that his 
Imuse was connected in a mysterious way with other buildings. 
It was only in this way that he was enabled to play the part of 
a deus ex machina — as Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte-Cristo 
and Lord Wilmore. 

Spero had never heard of this secret passage. Like a man in 
a dream he strode toward the table, and seizing the note read the 
following: 

‘‘ If the son of the Count of Monte-Cristo is not a coward, and 
wishes to find her whom he has lost, let him go at once to Cour- 
berode and hunt u^ a man named Malvernet, who lives at the so- 
called Path of Thorns. Here he will find out what he wants to 
know, and perhaps a little more.” 

There was no signature to the letter, and Spero cared very little 
for that. Suddenly his glance happened to fall on a large mir- 
ror and he gave a cry of alarm. 

Was the pale man with the deep blue rings about bis eyes the 
twenty-year- old son of the great count ? 

“ One would think that the few days I have been away from 
my father had aged me many years,” he bitterly muttered, 
“but no,” he added, flaming up; “ the enemies of the great 
count shall not say that his son is not a worthy scion! I will 
crush them if they touch a hair of Jane’s head. My father did 
not name me Spero for nothing. So long as I breathe I can 
hope; I will not despair, I will conquer!” 

He pulled out his two pistols and examined them, and with a 
soft, tender “Father, help me,” he left the secret chamber. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE PATH OF THORNS. 

Twenty years ago the village of Courberode looked differently 
from what it does to-day. It consisted of a few miserable fisher- 
men’s cabins. One hundred feet from the beach a path filled 
with thorns led far into the country. Tlie thorns in the course 
of time had become impenetrable walls, and this gave rise to the 
name, “The Path of Thorns.” 

Just behind it stood an old tumble-down lioiise. The basement 
of this house consisted of a smoky room furnished with one table, 
two chairs and a flickering oil lamp. A man was walking up 
and down the low apartment. 

“1 wonder whether he will come,” he muttered to himself. 

At this moment a slight noise was heard outside. A knock 
came at the door. 

“Who’s there?” ksked the man roughly. 

“Does a man named Malvernet live" here?” came back in 
reply. 


THE SON OF MONTE’CBISTO. 


165 


Yes. Come right in.” 

Spero entered, his clothes dripping wet, and blue-bJack hair 
hanging over his forehead. 

“ My name is Malvernet,” said the other sharply; ‘‘ what do 
you wish?” 

“ Do you know me?” he asked in a firm tone. 

“ No, I was told to come here and await a man. I was to do 
as he said and ask no questions. So I came and await your 
orders.” 

“ Then listen to me. My father is^the Count of Monte-Cristo. 
lam rich, very rich, and I can reward every service rendered 
me in a princely manner.” 

A mocking laugh came from the man’s lips. 

“What do you mean by offering me money?” he grufiiy 
asked; “ I have not asked you for payment yet, and perhaps it 
will not be in cash. Tell me now what you want of me.” 

“ Robbers entered my house last night and robbed me of the 
dearest jewel I possess — a young girl whom I love.” 

“ What’s her name ?” 

“ Jane! You promised to obey my orders, and I only ask you 
to lead me to Jane.” 

“ And if I ref use ?” 

“ Then I will kill you.” 

“ Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the man, “that is well said.” 

“ Do you refuse to obey me?” 

“I did not say that. You need me, while lean get along 
without you. The game is therefore unequal.” 

“ You are right, and 1 beg you to forgive me.” 

“ Well then, vicomte, what do you command ?” 

“ Then you really wish to help me ?” 

“Follow me,” said Benedetto (for he was the man), as he 
opened a door. 

“ Anywhere,” cried Spero, “ if I can only find Jane again.” 

“ I will go on in advance, and follow me closely, for the night 
is pitch dark and we might lose each other.” 

Spero nodded, and they both walked out into the pouring 
rain. Oh, why was the Count of Monte-Cristo far away ? Why 
had he spared the wretch, when the sea cast him up? Why 
had he prevented Bei*tuccio from crushing the head of the 
poisonous reptile? 

For a time the criminal and his company walked on in 
silence. 

Suddenly it appeared to Spero as if the end of the way had 
been reached, and pausing, he asked: 

“ Where are we?” 

“ On the banks of the Seine; in a few minutes we will be at 
the place.” 

“ My poor Jane,” murmured Spero, “ how terrible it is to look 
for you in this deserted quarter.” 

“ Are you afraid ?” asked Benedetto mockingly, 

Spero did not answer the impudent question, 

“ Go on,” he coldly said. 


166 


THE SON OF MONTE-CJHSTO, 


Benedetto turned into a narrow path. Suddenly he stopped 
short and said: 

Here we are!” 

Spero looked about him! In front of him rose -a tall, gloomy 
building, and it appeared to him as if rough singing was going 
on within. 

“ Is this really the house ?*’ asked the vicomte, unconsciously 
shuddering. 

“Yes.” 

“ It looks like a low den, and who guarantees me that I am 
not being led into a trap ?” 

“ Vicomte of Monte-Cristo,” replied Benedetto, “if I desired 
to murder you I could have done so long ago.” 

“ You are right.” 

Just then coarse laughter and the noise of a falling body came 
from the inside of the house. 

“Let us go into the house,” cried Spero excitedly. “God 
knows what may be going on there.” 

Benedetto shoved his arm under thevicomte’s and opening the 
door said : 

“You will find more here than will please you.” 

They both entered a dark corridor now, the door fell back in 
the lock and Spero asked: 

“Where are we?” 

“ On the spot,” mockingly said Benedetto. 

At the same time Spero felt the arm of his companion slip 
from under his, and he was alone. The room in which he was 
had neither windows nor doors, and gritting his teeth the young 
man said: 

“ The wretch has ensnared me in a trap.” 

Something extraordinary happened now. The wall before him 
opened, and an open space came to view. The room lighted up, 
and Spero saw — Jane, but merciful God, in what company! 

She formed the center of a wild orgy; glasses rang, coarse 
songs and oaths were heard from the lips of a crowd of shame- 
less men and women, who surrounded Jane, and uttering a loud 
cry Spero buried his face in his hands. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE PASHA. 

As we have stated, Gontram had given a note to Goucou to 
deliver to Carmen. When the Jackal reached the palace in the 
Rue Rivoli, he stopped in amazement. The doors were wide open 
and the whole front of the house swam in light. 

The Zouave entered a restaurant opposite, ordered a bottle of 
wine, and began a conversation with the waiter. 

“ What is going on to-day in the Larsagny palace?” he asked. 

“ Oh, the banker is giving a great ball,” said the waiter. 

“ He is very rich, I suppose.” 

“ Enormously so.” 

“ Can you not tell me, good friend, where Monsieur de Larsag- 
ny lives ?” 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. Wl 

About a hundred feet away in that brilliantly illuminated 
house — you cannot miss it.” 

“ Thanks,” said the soldier. As he was about to turn away, 
a well-known voice cried to him: 

“ Well, Galoret, what do the dear Bedouins do now?” 

“ Hello, Coucou— where do you hail from ?” cried the soldier, 
joyously. 

‘‘ Rather tell me where you come from ?” 

“ Ah, I have only been three days in Paris.” 

“ What business have you in the Lai'sagny palace ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, I must deliver a letter.” 

“ So must I; from whom, if I may ask?” 

“ Oh, it is no secret. I have a Bedouin prince for a friend who 
accompanied me to Paris. About two hours ago my pasha fell 
down the stairs of his hotel and broke his right leg. The doctor 
says that it will take six weeks for the leg to be cured. As he 
was invited to a ball at the Larsagny palace to- night ” 

“ Does he know the banker?” interrupted Coucou. 

“No — Mohammed Ben Omar is in Paris for the first time. 
As the pasha is unable to attend the ball, I have got to bring 
his letter of excuse, and now I must really go on my way.” 

Coucou pretended not to hear these last words. He gazed at 
a group of men who sat at a side table, and whispered to Galoret: 

“ Look at those fools. How they stare at you. One would 
think they had never seen a Chasseur d’Afrique.” 

“Impertinent scoundrels,” growled Galoret, and, turning to 
the gentlemen, he cried in an angry tone of voice: 

“You boobies, have you looked at my uniform long 
enough ?” 

The gentlemen answered in not very polite tones. Galoret did 
not wish to stand this. One word led to anotlier, and finally 
chairs were taken up to settle the discussion. 

Policemen now interfered. Galoret and two others with 
bloody heads were locked up, and then only did the chasseur i*e- 
member his errand. 

Coucou was waiting for this moment. He introduced him- 
self to the policemen and offered to carry the letter himself. 
The policemen offered no opposition, Galoret thanked him, and 
Coucou satisfied his conscience with the maxim of Loyola, that 
“ the end justifies the means.” 

“Now I can enter the Larsagny palace,” he said to himself; 
“ as the pasha they will admit me.” 

Coucou jumped into a carriage and told the coachman to drive 
to the Rue de Peletier. 

A quarter of an hour later a Bedouin clad all in white, whose 
brown complexion and coal-black eyes betrayed his Oriental 
origin, left the store of an elegant place in the Rue le Peletier 
and, stepping into the coach which stood at the door, he cried to 
the coachman: 

“ Rue de Rivoli, Palais Larsagny!” 

The horses started off, the carriage rolled along, and the 
Bedouin, in whose turban a ruby glitttered, muttered to himself: 

“ One can get through the world with cheek!” 


168 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


CHAPTER XLV. 

HOW CARMEN KEEPS HER WORD. 

If Carmen had not hoped to serve Gontram and his friends she 
would have left the Larsagny palace at once, but under existing 
circumstances prudence prompted her to stay and not to repulse 
the banker entirely, for she suspected that Larsagny held tlie 
threads of the mystery which threatened the Vicomte of Monte- 
Cristo in his hand. Carmen did not have much time to think, 
for hardly an hour after Gontram had gone, the banker appeared 
in the boudoir, and looking with astonishment at her, he said: 

“ What does this mean, Carmen ? Our guests will soon be here, 
and you are not yet dressed.’’ 

“Our guests ?” repeated Carmen, in amazement. 

“Yes. Have you forgotten that the ball to which you your- 
self sent out invitations ten days ago, takes pi act? to-night ?” 

“ Really, I had forgotten all about it,” stammered Carmen; “ it 
is all the same though, I have got a headache and shall remain 
in my room.” 

“ But, Carmen, what shall we do if you do not appear ?” 

“ That is not my affair,” replied Carmen, laconically. 

The banker ran his hands through his hair in despair. 

“ Carmen, be reasonable,” he implored, as he tried to take her 
hand. 

“ Don’t touch me,” said Carmen. 

Larsagny bit his lips, 

“ What have I done to you ?” he groaned. “ Think of the shame 
if the ladies appear and hnd out that my daughter has retired to 
her room.” 

Carmen became pensive. Perhaps it might be better if she 
took part in the ball; she might hear something of interest to 
Gontram. 

“ Well, if you desire it, I will appear, but under one condition,” 
she said, coldly. 

“ Name it.” 

“ I demand that you shall not present me to any one as your 
daughter.” 

“ But what shall I say?” 

“Anything else; and now go, I must make my toilet.” 

“ Carmen, I have one more favor to ask of you.” 

“ Well?” 

“ I must leave the house about twelve o’clock for one or more 
hours ” 

“ He lies,” thought Carmen to herself. 

“ To do this,” continued Larsagny, “ I must pretend some sud- 
den sickness. You will have me brought to my room, and 
then- — ” 

“ Since when are the bankers and the money -brokers at night in 
their offices?” asked Carmen. 

“ But ” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that you have business on the Bourse 
at midnight ?” 

“ Carmen, I swear to you that ” 


THE SOA OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


169 


‘ ‘ If 5*011 imagine that 5*011 can make me 5*our accomplice in 
some crime that you are planning, you are mistaken. I will be 
the first one to deliver you over to the law.” 

Larsagny trembled, but he tried to smile, and with a hasty 
au revoir, he went away. 

Carmen hastily dressed herself; she didn’t pay much attention 
to her toilet, and went down to the parlors where a number of 
guests were already assembled. 

***,»:»** ^ 

The greatest names of the empire had been announced by the * 
lackeys. 

Suddenly a murmur ran through the assembly. ‘‘Moham- 
med Ben Omar,” the lackey had called, and all crowded about 
the reception-room to see the pasha. 

With genuine Oriental grandeur the pasha slowly walked 
toward the host. Larsagny bowed deeply, the Bedouin answered 
the greeting by placing his right hand over his heart. That 
ended the conversation for the present, for Mohammed made a 
sign that he did not understand a word of French. Only when 
he saw a remarkably handsome woman, he would say: 

“Pretty woman.” 

Carmen had been distinguished in this w*ay, and Larsagny, 
who felt flattered by it, tried to make the pasha comprehend 
that she was his daughter. 

“ Ah, pretty, pretty,” repeated the Mussulman, and the banker, 
his face lit up with joy, said: 

“ May I introduce her?” 

Mohammed nodded. 

Carmen bowed politely when the*introduction was made, and 
said nothing. Omar offered her his arm, and murmured as he 
pointed to some pictures. 

“Allah il Allah. I come from the painter Gontram. Mo- 
hammed resoul il Allah.” 

“ The pasha evidently wishes you to show him the picture- 
gallery,” said Larsagny. 

“ Then come,” said the young girl to the Oriental. 

As soon as Omar was alone with his companion, he whispered : . 

“ Pardon me, I had to speak to you.” 

“ Who are you?” asked Carmen. 

“A friend, a former Zouave in the service of the Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” 

“ Well, what have you?” 

“ A note from the painter Gontram.” 

“ Give it to me — quickly.” 

Coucou drew the letter from the folds of his burnoose and gave 
it to the young girl. It read as follows: 

“Carmen, my friends are in danger; Jane Zild has been ab- 
ducted and Spero has disappeared. If every sign does not de- 
ceive, the banker must know something about it. Perhaps you 
pi ay be able to find out the secret. 

“ In great haste, 

“ G, S,” 


170 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRTSTO. 


Carmen breathed more freely after she had read the lines. 

“Well?” said the Zouave, expectantly. 

‘‘ Go back to Monsieur Sabran and tell him I will move heaven 
and earth to find out the secret. Gontram is still in the Monte- 
Cristo palace, is he not ?” 

“Yes,” 

“If I have occasion to go there will I be admitted?” 

“ Yes.” 

At this moment a servant rushed into the parlor and ex- 
claimed : 

“ Mademoiselle, Monsieur de Larsagny has suddenly become 
ill.” 

“ I shall come soon,” said Carmen, coldly, and nodding to 
Coucou, she went away. 

In the banker’s room great confusion reigned. The master 
of the house lay motionless, with closed eyes, on a divan. K 
physician who happened to be present, suggested opening a 
vein, and Carmen stood at the bedside, not knowing what to do. 

At hmgth she consented, and w^hile the operation was being 
performed. Carmen searched all of Monsieur de Larsagny’s 
pockets. She soon discovered a letter, and hurried with it to 
her room. The note read as follows: 

“Our revenge is assured. Fanfaro, Gontram, and a foraaer 
clown, determined to discover the vie. ’s whereabouts, and thanks 
to their curiosity, they have fallen into a trap in the M. C. pal- 
ace. The little one is in the house in Courb, and the son of the 
man against whom we have sworn eternal hate, wall come too 
late. , C.” 

Carmen at once understood the meaning of these lines. She 
knew the house in Courbevoie spoken about, and throwing a long 
black cloak over her shoulders, she left the palace by the rear 
door. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

IN COURBEOVIE. 

We left Spero at the moment when the walls of the room he 
was in opened and presented the horriblej spectacle which met 
his eyes. In what way had the poor child got in such company? 
Benedetto, of course, had done this dastardly act. He had 
drugged her after he had abducted her from Monte- Cristo’s 
house; and the poor girl was unable to give utterance to a cry. 
She saw everything that went on about her, but was unable to 
say a word. And Spero had to gaze at these terrible scenes; 
he could not keep his eyes away. He tried in vain to find a 
means of entering the hall. • The whole scene had been arranged 
by Benedetto and Larsagny in a satanic spirit. Larsagny owned 
the house in Courbevoie, aid had often presided at the bacchana- 
lian revels. Carmen had not called him a master of demorali- 
zation for nothing. While Spero was beating the iron railing 
in despair, the light suddenly went out and all was still. The 
vlcoipte ^-^in^d his eyes to see what was going on in the hall 


THE SON OF MONTE‘CRISTO. 171 

and not seeing anything, waited in agony of fear for what was 
coming. 

In about ten minutes it became light again in the hall, and 
now the young man saw^ Jane again, but this time she was alone. 

Spero breathed more freely, and, beside himself, he called: 

“ Jane! Jane! come to me!” 

At the rear of the hall a door opened, and Spero recognized in 
a man who crossed the threshold — Monsieur de Larsagny. 

Larsagny drew near to Jane, and sinking upon his knees, he 
pressed his lips to the young girl’s hand. Spero breathlessly fol- 
lowed Larsagny ’s movements, and when he saw that Jane made 
no resistance, he became violent. With all his strength, he 
threw himself against the iron railing; it gave way, and with a 
cry Spero rushed upon Monsieur de Larsagny. In a second the 
banker lay on the floor. Throwing his arms about Jane, Spero 
cried: 

•‘Jane, my darling, do you not know me? I am — Monte- 
Cristo.’' 

“ Monte-Cristo!” cried Larsagny, in terror, and with a gasp be 
fell back dead — a stroke of apoplexy had put an end to his life. 

Spero did not know that he was the living picture of his father. 
Edmond Dantes had just looked like that when he was arrested 
at Marseilles through the intrigues of Danglars, Fernand and 
yillefort, and Danglars-Larsagny had thought it was Monte- 
Cristo who stood before him. 

Jane'still lay motionless in Spero’s arms. The vicomte called 
de^airingly for help, but none came. 

Siiddenly it occurred to him that Jane’s condition was due to 
some narcotic, and with a cry of joy he pulled a. small crystal 
vial from his breast pocket. It contained a liquid the Abbe Faria 
had taught Edmond Dantes how to make. Putting the vial to 
Jane’s lips, he poured a few drops down her throat. 

The effect was instantaneous. Jane uttered a deep sigh, and 
looked at the young man with returning consciousness. 

“ Spero,” she cried, “you here in this terrible place ? Oh, go 
— go away; y<^u must not stay here.” 

“ Jane, I have come to take you with me.” 

“No! — oh, no! I am accursed! I must not accompany you!” 
sobbed the young girl. 

“ What nonsense, child. You have been abducted from my 
house and brought here against your will. Come with me; I 
will bring you away, or else die with you!” 

“ Not for any price,” groaned Jane. “ Go — leave this place, 
and let me die; I cannot live any longer — the shame kills me.” 

“ Jane, do not speak so. Jane, my Jane, do you really refuse 
to accompany me ?” 

“ God forgive me if I do wrong; I cannot leave you,” she mur- 
mured, as she threw herself into the young man’s arms. 

But at this moment the coarse songs sounded again, and a man 
entered the hall. It was Benedetto! 


173 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO, 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE DEVOTED. 

CoucoTJ had not taken time to change his clothes when he 
presented himself to Madame Caraman on his return home, and 
tlie worthy w'oman uttered a cry of astonishment. 

“ What is the meaning of this?” she asked. “I think that we 
have more serious things to think of than masquerading.” 

“Come, do not speak before you know everything,” replied 
the Zouave, and in a few words he told her the story of his dis- 
guise. 

“Where can Monsieur Sabran be?” asked Madame Cara- 
raan. 

“ What!’ exclaimed Coucou, “ where is he then?” 

“ 1 haven't seen him, nor Fanfaro, nor Bobichel since.” 

“ Impossible! Are they still in Jane’s room ?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ I cannot understand it. and ” 

A hollow noise caused Coucou to keep silent. He and Ma- 
dame Caraman looked at each other in terror. 

“ What can that be?” asked Madame Caraman. 

Before Coucou could answer the question, the noise was re- 
peated. 

“ The noise comes from the right side.'* said Coucou, who had 
been listening, “let us hurry to Gontram and Fanfaro, and call 
their attention to it.” 

Mamma Caraman nodded, and they both went to Jane's 
room. 

It was empty! 

“ This is getting worse and worse,” cried Coucou, anxiously. 
“ Do you know what I think, this room has a secret exit and 
through it Jane, the vicomte, Gontram and his comrades have 
disappeared.” 

“ What are you going to do ?'* 

“ Break dowm the house if necessary,” said Coucou, beginning 
to trample upon the ground. 

“ But you are ruining the carpet,” cried Mamma Caraman. 

The sound of the door-bell at this minute prevented Coucou 
from replying. In front of the door stood Carmen. 

“ Thank Heaven you have come, mademoiselle.” 

“You haven't found Gontram yet?” 

“ No.” 

“Monsieur Gontram and his comrades are in subterranean 
chambers in this house.” 

“ Knock at the walls, Coucou,” said Madame Caraman, “ and 
then we can wait for an answer.” 

Coucou knocked three times with a hammer against the wall 
At the end of the second knock came back in answer twenty- 
five. 

“ What does that mean ?” asked Coucou, in affright. 

“I know,"' cried Carmen; “twenty-five knocks signify the 
letters of the alphabet!” 

Then we oiu&t answer to show that we upderstau<i the Ian- 


THE SOS OF MONTE'CBISTO, 178 

guage,” said Madame Caraman, ‘‘Coucou — quick— twenty-five 
knocks.” 

The Zouave did as he was told, and the answer came back iu 
one knock which meant “yes.” 

Five further knocks followed, 

“I,” said Carmen. 

Nineteen knocks. 

“ S,” whispered Carmen. 

Seven knocks. 

“G.” 

Nine knocks. 

“J.” 

Two knocks. 

“ B.” 

Twenty knocks. 

4< rp 

Carmen now read the meaning of this: 

“ There is an iron door under the wall decoration.” 

Coucou soon found the secret door. 

At the end of five minutes Fanfaro, Bobichel and Gontram 
were again with their friends. In a few words Carmen related 
what had brought her there and showed the letter she had taken 
from Larsagny. 

“In Courbevoie,” cried Gontram, “ how shall we find Spero 
there ?” 

“ I know the house,” said Carmen, “ it belongs to the banker, 
and I believe we shall find the vicomte there.” 

“ May God grant it.” 

Ten minutes later they were all on the road to Courbevoie. 


CHAPTER XLVin. ‘ 

UNITED IN DEATH. 

When Benedetto entered the hall he was neither Malvemet, 
Cavalcanti or Fagiano. He was simply Benedetto. 

“Whoever you are,” cried the vicomte, “I implore you to 
help me bring this poor child out of here.” 

“Vicomte,” rephed Benedetto coldly, “I will not help you, 
and you’ll not bring this woman away from here.” 

“I will shoot you down like a dog,” said Spero, contemptu- 
ously. 

With these words he pulled out a pistol and held it toward 
Benedetto. 

“ You wish to commit murder, vicomte!” 

“ Do not speak of murder, wretch. You robbed me of my 
freedom, and this poor child whose innocence ought to be sa- 
cred to you, you ” 

“ The poor innocent child,” interrupted the ex-convict 5 you 
told me it was brought here against its will!” 

“Scoundrel, you lie,” cried Spero, angrily. 

Benedetto laughed coarsely. 

“ Jane Zild,” he then said, drawing back a step, “ tell the Vi* 


174 


THF: son of MONTE-CniSTO, 


comte of Monte-Cristo that you are worthy of him. Don't you 
remember who your mother was, what your mother was and 
where she died ?'' 

“ Mercy,” cried Jane, throwing herself at Benedetto's feet. 
“ Mercy 1” 

“JaneZild, shall I tell the vicomte who your father was?” 

“ My father?” stammered Jane, confused. 

“Yes, your father. Do you not remember a man who took care 
of you after your mother died ? The man was formerly a galley- 
slave named Ansel mo. Before that he wore the dress of a priest. 
Jane Zild is the daughter of the convict of Toulon and the wom- 
an of Lyons.” 

“Miserable scoundrel,” cried Bpero, “you lie. If you have 
weapons, let us tight. Only one of us dare leave this room alive.” 

“Just my idea,” said Benedetto, as he took two sw^ords from 
under his cloak. “ Choose, and now vog^te ma galereN 

“ The motto is no doubt derived from your past," said Spero. 

“You shall pay for that, boy,” hissed Benedetto as he placed 
himself in position. 

A hot struggle ensued and Benedetto was finally driven against 
the wall. 

“ Wretch!” exclaimed Spero, “ your life is in my hands; beg 
for mercy or I shall stab you through the heart.” 

“ I beg for mercy? fool, you do not know what you are speak- 
ing of! I hate you — I hate your father — take my life, or as true 
as 1 stand here, I shall take yours!” 

“Then die,” replied Spero, and with a quick movement he 
knocked Benedetto’s sword out of his hand and made a lunge at 
him! 

But the lunge did not reach Benedetto’s heart, but that of the 
young girl — at the same momenta shot rang through the hall, 
and Jane and Spero sank lifeless to the floor. 

How had this horrible thing ha^ened? 

At the moment Benedetto saw Spero’s sword turned toward 
his heart, he seized the pistol the vicomte had carelessly laid 
aside, and fired at his opponent. Jane saw the wretch seize the 
pistol — she threw herself into his arms to save her lover, and re- 
ceived the death-blow from Spero’s hand. 

* * * * * • * * 

The moment Spero breathed his last, loud cries were heard 
throughout the house, and many voices called Spero’s name. 

Benedetto grew pale. How could he save himself? Only one 
way was left to him, and he hesitated to carry it out. 

Hasty steps were now heard coming along the corridor. Tear- 
ing the window open, Benedetto swung himself on the sill. He 
looked into the dark waters of the Seine, and firmly muttered: 

“Forward! Down there is hope; here, death!” 

Fanfaro, Gontram, Carmen, Bobichel and Coucou now hurried 
into the hall. Benedetto looked at them with flaming eyes, and 
mockingly cried: 

“You are too late! I have killed Monte-Cristo’s son!” 

The next minute he had disappeared, and, while the waves 


THE J^ON OF MONTE-CRIETO. 175 

rushed over him, Fanfaro and Gontram rushed toward Spero’s 
body, and Fanfaro sobbingly exclaimed: 

Too latel Too late! Oh, poor, poor father!” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE SPECTER. 

Just as Benedetto had uttered the mocking words to the 
friends of Spero, the form of a man appealed in the doorway. 
He threw one horror-stricken look at the bodies, a second one at 
the ex-convict, swung himself also on the window-sill, and 
plunged in after Benedetto. It was Anselmo. 

The water was ice-cold, but neither of them paid any atten- 
tion to it. Benedetto only tliought of saving himself, and An- 
selmo of his revenge. Benedetto did not know he was being 
pursued. Who would risk his own life to follow him ? no, it 
was madness to imagine so. But now he heard some one swim 
ming behind him. If he could reach the bushes of Nemilly he 
would be safe. He did not dare turn about— he felt frightened 
and his teeth chattered. 

At lengtli the long-looked-for bank was seen — a few more 
strokes and he would be saved. Now — now he pressed upon the 
sand — dripping, trembling with cold, he swung himself upon 
dry land and looked back at the dark waters. He could see 
nothing, his pursuer had evidently given up the project. 

Anselmo had really lost courage. He had the greatest diflfi- 
culty to keep himself afloat. Suddenly his almost paralyzed 
hand grasped a plank, he clambered on it, and reached the 
shore with its aid. He landed about one hundred feet away 
from Benedetto. Now he saw the hated wretch, but was it a 
vision, a play of his excited fancy? It seemed to him as if 
Benedetto was hurrying toward the water again! Behind him 
moved a white shadow; it seemed to be pursuing the scoundrel, 
and they were both flying toward the shore. 

Benedetto did not turn around — did he fear to see the 
white form? Both came toward Anselmo. Benedetto looked 
neither to the right nor to the left. Now his foot grazed the 
water. Then came a soft, trembling voice on the still night air: 

“Benedetto — my son! Benedetto — wait for me!” 

With a cry of terror, Benedetto turned around. There stood 
his mother whom he had murdered. She pressed her hand to the 
breast her son’s steel had penetrated. Now she stretched out 
her long, bony fingers toward him — she threw her lean arm 
around his neck, and he could not cry out. Slowly they both 
walked toward the river. They set foot on the dark space — 
they sank deeper and deeper, and now^now the waves rushed 
over them! Outraged nature was done penance to. The mother, 
whom Benedetto had stabbed in the heart, had drawn her son 
with her into a watery grave. 

******* 

The next morning fishermen found the body of an unknown 


178 


THE SOH OE M0NTE-CR1S7V. 


man in the bushes — it was Anselino. He had breathed his last 
as the sun just began to rise —bis last word was: 


“Jane!” 


CHAPTER L. 

Deep silence reigned in tlie ]\tonte-*Cristo palace — the silence of 
death. Everything was draped in mourning, and on a cata- 
falque rested the bodies of Spero and Jane. . 

They were all dead, Danglars, Villefort, Mondago, Caderousse 
and Benedetto, but Monte-Cristo was alive to close the eyes of 
his dearly beloved son. 

Mockery of fate! the two men who watched the corpses wait- 
ed with anxiety for the moment when the Count of Monte-Cristo 
would enter. 

Before the vision of the oldest man rose the atrocious scenes at 
Uargla; he saw Spero, a bold, brave boy, scaling the towers — he 
heard his firm words — “ Papa, let us die” — and felt the soft, 
childish arms wind about his neck. This was Fanfaro. 

The other watcher was Gontram. Coucou, Bobichel and Ma- 
dame Caraman were paralyzed with grief. The Zouave would 
willingly have died a thousand deaths if he only could have 
saved the life of his young master. 

The third day dawned and Gontram and Fanfaro looked anx- 
iously at each other. To-day the count must come. 

Toward evening the door was suddenly opened — slowly, with 
a heavy tread, a tall man approached the catafalque and sinking 
on his knees beside it, he hid his pale face in the folds of the 
burial cloth. The count neither looked to the right nor to the 
left, he only saw his son. Not a sound issued from his troubled 
breast, but with a cold shiver, Fanfaro and Gontram noticed 
that the count’s black hair was slowly becoming snow-white, 
and with profound pity the friends gazed upon the grief-stricken 
man, who had become old in an hour. 

Monte-Cristo now bent over his son and clasped the dear corpse 
in his powerful arms. He went slowly and noiselessly to the 
door — Fanfaro and Gontram stood as if in a daze, and not UDtil 
the door had closed behind the count did they recover their self- 
possession. They hurried after him — they tried to follow his 
track, but it was useless — the count had disappeared together 
with his son’s body. 

EPILOGUE. 

THE ABBE DANTES. 

Fifty years ago a solitary man stood on a lonely rock. 

The night was horrible; the storm drove the snow and rain 
into the face of the solitary man, and whipped the black hair 
around his temples, but he paid no attention to this — he dug 
into the hard, rockj^ soil with pickax and spade. 

Suddenly he uttered an ejaculation of joy. The brittle rock 
had revealed its secret to him. Unexpected treasures, incalcu- 
lable fortunes lay before his eager gaze. 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


177 


Then the man stood erect; he glanced wildly around him 
toward all the f om* quarters of the globe, and cried aloud : 

“All you, who have kept me imprisoned for fourteen long 
years in a subterranean vault into which neither sun nor moon 
could penetrate, who would have condemned mybody to eternal 
decline, and enshrouded my mind with the night of insanity — 
you whose names I do not yet know, beware! I swear to be re- 
venged — revenged! Edmond Dantes has risen from his grave, 
he has risen to chastise his torturers, and as sure as there is a 
God in heaven you shall learn to know me.” 

About whom was this solitary man speaking ? He did not yet 
know, but he was soon to discover it. 

Fourteen years before Edmond Dantes, the young sailor, was 
joyously returning to the harbor of Marseilles on board the 
Pharaon, belonging to Monsieur Morrel. His captain had died 
on the trip and he was promised the vacant place. As soon as 
he had landed he hastened to his bride, the Catalan Mercedes, to 
announce to her that he could now lead her to the altar. 

Then he was suddenly arrested. He was accused of transmit- 
ting letters to the Emperor Napoleon, then a prisoner on the 
Island of Elba. 

He did not deny the fact. It was his captain’s dying wish. 
He was ignorant of the contents of the missive and of the one 
he had in his possession given him by the captive emperor to 
deliver to a Monsieur Noirtier in Paris. 

Monsieur Noirtier’s full name was Noirtier de Villefort, and his 
son Monsieur de Villefort was the deputy procureur du roi to 
whom Edmond Dantes handed the letter to prove his inno- 
cence. 

The son suppressed the letter in order not to be compromised 
by the acts of his father, and had the j^oung man torn from the 
arras of his betrothed and incarcerated in the subterranean dun- 
geon of the Chateau d’lf . 

Here he remained fourteen long years, his only companion the 
Abbe Faria, who was deemed to be insane. The abbe on his 
death-bed intrusted to him the secret that an enormous fortune 
was concealed in a grotto on the island of Monte-Cristo in the 
Mediterranean Sea. Edmond Dantes escaped from his dungeon 
and discovered the buried treasure. 

He then left the island to accomplish the revenge he had 
sworn. 

He found that his father had died of starvation and that 
Mercedes had married another. Who was this other one ? 

Fernand Mondego, now the Count de Morcerf , had become the 
husband of the beautiful Catalan. Formerly a simple fisher- 
man, he had risen to become a member of the. French parlia- 
ment. 

The second in whose way Edmond Dantes had stood was a 
man named Danglars. An officer on board the Pharaon, he had 
hoped to obtain the position of captain. Now he had become 
one of the principal bankers of the capital. 

The third, Caderouse, an envious tailor, had allowed himself to 
t)e made tool of to bring to the authorities the donunciatioft 


178 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


against the young sailor which Danglarshad dictated and Mon- 
dego written down. 

His worst enemy was Villefort, who had now become the 
procureur du roi at Paris. 

Was Edmond Dantes to be blamed if he, after he had discov- 
ered all this, took the law in his own hands and began to execute 
liis vengeance ? Danglars was his first victim. He ruined him 
and made him suffer the pangs of hunger which Edmond’s 
father had suffered. 

Fernand Mondego, Count De Morcerf Avas the second. At 
first Dantes, who now called himself the Count of Monte-Cristo, 
wanted to kill Fernand’s son, Albert de Morcerf, but he spared 
the young man for Mercedes’ sake. 

He looked up Mon d ego’s past history. The latter had risen to 
power through crime and treachery. He had betrayed Ali 
Tebelen, Pasha of Yanina, and sold the latter’s wife Vassiliki anti 
daughter Haydee into slavery. Haydee herself denounced De 
Morcerf’s infamy in the chamber of deputies. De Morcerf, for- 
ever dishonored, and knowing the blow came from Monte-Cristo, 
sought to pick a quarrel with the latter. But the count, glancing 
him full in the face, said: 

Look at me well, Fernand, and you will understand it all. I 
am Edmond Dantes.” 

Then De Morcerf fled, and an hour afterward blew out his 
brains. 

De Villefort’s turn was next. Monte-Cristo discovered that he 
had buried alive a child of Madame Danglars and himself. Ber- 
tuccio the Corsican had saved the child and reared it to man- 
hood. The boy had become the bandit Benedetto. 

Monte-Cristo found him in the galleys at Toulon. He aided in 
his escape, and Benedetto assassinated Caderousse. Tried for 
this murder, Benedetto found himself confronted with his father, 
the procureur du roi. He boldly announced his relationship, 
and de Villefort fled from the courtroom only to find on reach- 
ing home that his wife had poisoned herself and her son. In 
that moment of agony Monte-Cristo appeared before him and 
told him that he was Edmond Dantes. The blow struck home. 
De Villefort went mad. 

His work of vengeance was now accomplished. Monte-Cristo 
was rich and all-powerful. He married Haydee, and they had 
a son, Spero. Now, alas! Haydee was dead! Spero was dead! 

* ****** 

It was ten years ago since Monte-Cristo, on that fearful 
night, bore off the corpse of his only son. 

Again he stood alone on the rock on tl>e island of Monte- 
Cristo. He had lived on this rock for ten years. He saw no one, 
heard no one, except when occasionally men came ashore for 
water. Then he concealed himself, watching them and hearing 
their gay laughter. 

But the'rumor that the island was haunted spread around, and 
the superstitious Italians claimed that it was inhabited by a spirit 
whom they called the Abbe of Monte-Cristo* 


THE SON OF HONTE-CETSTO. 179 

All these years MoDte-Cristo had lived on herbs and roots. He 
had sworn never to touch money again while he lived. 

One night Monte-Cristo entered the subterranean cave where 
the marble sarcophagus of his son was. 

“ Spero,” he earnestly said, “ is it time?'’ 

A long silence ensued. Then — was it a reality ? Spero’s lips 
appeared to move and utter the word: 

“ Come.” 

“I thought so.” muttered the Count, “ I shall come, my child, 
as soon as my affairs are settled.” 

He took a package from his pocket and unfolding it read it 
aloud: 

“ My Last Will and Testament. 

“The person who signed this paper, and who is about to die, 
has been more powerful than the greatest ruler on earth. He 
has loved and hated strongly. All is forgotten, all is dead to 
him except the souvenir of the son who was dear to him. This • 
man possessed millions, but dies of hunger. He desired to domi- 
neer over every one, made a judge of himself and rewarded the 
just and punished the guilty. He has no heir, but he thinks it 
would be wrong for him to destroy the wealth he possesses. It 
is in existence, though hid away. He bequeaths it to Provi- 
dence. It will bear this paper together with these myterious 
signs. 

“Will the money be found? 

“Whoever reads this paper will do a wise act if he annihi- 
lates it. May he Avho finds this paper listen and heed to the 
words of a dying man. 

The Abbe Dantes. 

“ February 25th, 1865.” 

Below this signature was a curious design. Monte-Cristo 
examined it. 

“ Ah, Faria!” he exclaimed, “ may your money fall into better 
hands than mine!” 

He felt singularly feeble and laid his hand on his heart. He 
entered the tomb of Spero and reclined beside him. His arms 
were crossed on his breast. His eyes shut. He was dead. 

# # * -If ^f If * 

All those who ever knew him never speak of him or hear his 
name uttered without being deeply affected. One thing has 
remained a secret for them up to this day. Where did Edmond 
Dantes, Count of Monte-Cristo, perish ? 

[the end.] 


180 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


MAB’S KEEPSAKE 


Mab and I had been idling about in Tuscany for some weeks 
with Uncle Wallace, and we had many plans made for more ex- 
tended journeyings, when our uncle was suddenly obliged to re- 
turn to England on pressing business. As we could not and 
would not accompany him, he installed us in a quiet little hotel, 
gave us a liberal allowance of |;ocket-mone3^ and left us with 
strict injunctions to remain quietly where we were until his re- 
turn. We were to make no excursions requiring longer than a 
day’s absence — for Uncle Wallace highly disapproved of ladies 
traveling alone in foreign countries. I was quite old enough to 
chaperon Mab whithersoever she cared to go; but, not being ar- 
gumentative, I agreed to keep her and myself in strict seclusion 
until our uncle rejoined us. 

But, after three days of our own society, we both grew horri- 
bly, mopish. Mab had made crooked little sketches of the old 
cathedral till we both hated the sight of the hoary edifice, we 
had tried all the cakes in the little confectioner’s, and had read 
our small library twice over. 

“ Eflae, there is to be a rural /cfe at San Vito on AVednesday, 
and I am going,” Mabel announced on the fourth day. 

‘‘San Vito is eight hours from here,” I said, deprecatingly. 

“ I don’t care if it is eighty.” 

“But think of your promise to Uncle Wallace not to go any- 
where.” 

“ We shall be away only one night; and I shall die of the 
‘ blues’ if we don't have some amusement.” 

I remonstrated to the utmost of my ability, but was overruled 
in the end, as I knew I should be. Mab, having had her own 
way ever since she was a baby, was not likely to relinquish her 
scepter at the ripe age of twenty. So the next afternoon, armed 
with shawl-straps and a small valise, we betook ourselves to the 
railway-station and bought tickets for San Vito. 

“ Mademoiselle should inquire carefully the hours of the trains, 
as the time-tables are often inaccurate on this line,” said our 
smiling landlord, as we departed. 

‘ ‘ Our only fellow- traveler in the coupe was a gentleman of about 
thirty. He was reading the as we entered: but I noticed 

that he seemed to take more interest in Mab’s pretty face than 
in the news. Yet he was not the least impertinent; and he appar- 
ently imagined that his fua*tive but comprehensive glances were 
quite mmoticed» 


THE SON OF MONTE-CEISTO. 


181 


. Every one admired Mabel — she was like a sea shell, or a tea- 
rose, or any delicately tinted lovely bit of nature — and I could 
not blame this man for being only human. He had pleasant 
dark eyes with plenty of fun in them, sleek dark hair, a good 
length of limb, and a look of the patrician about him from the 
toe of his well-fitting boot to his finely shaped hand. 

As the stranger had been thoughtful and kind concerning the dis- 
posal of our luggage and the arrangement of refractory curtains, 
politeness demanded that I should address him, and we were soon 
chatting together like old friends. He gave us his card, on which 
was engraved, “Sidney Weir, Oaklands, Kent,’^ and he gleaned 
from our conversation that the Misses Warburton of Exham 
were his traveling companions. It suddenly occured to me that 
I was playing the chaperon very badly in making such advances 
to a perfect stranger, and I tried to frighten Mab into becoming 
propriety and reserve; but, when I fiattered myself that I was 
looking my sternest, she actually gave Mr. Weir her pretty little 
hand to hold while he told her fortune in the pink palm. 

The subject of hric-a-brac having come up, Mr. Weir produced 
a curiously carved little silver whistle from bis pocket, which he 
said had once saved his life in India. It had a peculiar shrill 
note, very penetrating and striking, for so small an article, and 
used as a signal of distress, it had brought help when he was 
overpowered by the enemy. He seemed pleased with Mab’s 
warm admiration of the whistle, and, as she was returning it, 
he said simply: 

“ I should be so pleased if you would accept the litttle toy as a 
keepsake. I shall only lose it if it continues to jingle about with 
my keys and small change; and perhaps it would serve as a 
charm to ward off danger from you on some occasion. Its duty 
to me is done.” 

Mab hesitated; but, seeing the disappointed look on Mr. 
Weir’s face, she took the little trinket, with a smile of thanks, 
and fastened it to one of her bracelets. I thought it a bold, for- 
ward thing to do; but I knew that my opinion or displeasure 
would make but little difference to m3' 3munger sister. 

It was growing late as we drew near the little station of 
Gimino, where we should have to change carriages for San Vito. 
Our companion’s destination was a town further along the Gim 
ino line; so we should soon be obliged to separate. I was secret- 
ly pleased; but to Mr. Weir and Mab the time was slipping away 
altogether too quickly. Arrived at Gimino, we made the very 
unpleasant discovery that the San Vito train had gone on with- 
out us, and that there would be no other till five o’clock in the 
morning. 

“ What will you do?” asked Mr. Weir. “ I have ten minutes 
to spare before my train goes; if I could be of any service to you 
in engaging a room at tlie hotel, or in any other way, T should 
be most happy.” 

“ I think it would be better not to go to the hotel,” said Mab; 
“we should never wake up for the early train, and we have not 
the time to wait for the next one.” 

“ Yes,” I answered, “we could get some refreshment here, 


182 


niE BON OF MONTE-GRISTO, 


and stay in the waiting-room till our train comes. It is eleven 
o'clock now, and the time is not so very long. We can take a 
comfortable nap in the waiting-room.” 

Something in Mr. Weir’s manner betrayed that he did not 
quite approve of our plan; but he was too polite to say any- 
thing against it. He called a waiter to attend to our wants, 
and, in answer to the second sharp call from the locomotive, 
took his leave, lingering long over the hand-shake with Mab, 
and disappeared in the darkness. 

“ I wish he hadn’t gone. I feel lonely in this strange place,” 
said Mab, with a little shiver. 

“Nonsense, child! It would have been obtrusive and indeli- 
cate if he had remained. You forget that we are only friends 
of a day. Why should he alter his plans for us ?” 

t spoke boldly; but I too was very ill at ease. The little 
coffee-room was gradually filling with rough- looking men, who 
watched us — the. only women in the place — furtively and cur- 
iously, speaking a language which we but little understood. The 
hotel was a mile distant, and we could not take refuge in it at 
that hour of the night, even if we had known the way. 

“ Mab, how foolish of you to wear your diamond ring on a 
journey of this kind — it attracts attention!” I said, in an under- 
tone, as the light caught the brilliant on her finger when she 
raised her coffee-cup. 

I happened to glance out of the window at that instant, and, 
to my horror, saw a man with evil black eyes and grizzled hair 
staring intently at Mab and me with a wicked look about him 
which I could not forget. As I caught his eye, he slunk away 
in the darkness, and presently tlie railway- portei; came to escort 
us to the waiting-room. 

“ It is against the rule of the road to allow the waiting-room 
to be occupied at night,” he began; “ but, if you will be content 
without a light, and with both doors locked on the outside, I 
have no objection to your waiting there for your train.” 

This was appalling — to be locked up for five hours in a shabby 
little Italian waiting-room, in total darkness. By feeing the 
man we prevailed upon him to allow us to bolt the outer door 
on the inside, so that we should feel a little less like prisoners. 

“ The guard walks up and down the platform till daylight, so 
you can feel quite safe,” said the porter consolingly, as he 
wished us gopd-night and shut the door of the dark little den 
upon us. 

I fortunately bethought me of some wax-matches in the val- 
ise, and, lighting one for a moment, we took in the situation — a 
mean little room, with a door on two sides, hard benches round 
the walls, and a long table. Surely not an inviting apartment 
for repose! We made ourselves as comfortable as the circum- 
stances would permit, and tried to forget our position in sleep; 
but I became preternaturally wakeful. Here were we, two un- 
protected women, dropped down at this little wayside station 
for all the long night-hours, suspicious characters were lurking 
about, and we might be robbed and murdered without our 
friends ever knowing of our fate! In the midst of my cheerful 


THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. 


133 


reflections it consoled me a little to see the guard pass by slowly 
outside at intervals, with his lantern gleaming on the red band 
of his cap. 

Suddenly, my ears sharpened by the silence, I heard a stealthy 
step approach the inner door of our prison, and the quiet grating 
of a key in the lock was distinctly audible. My heart seemed to 
stop beating with fright; and then, to my unspeakable horror, 
the door softly opened, and the evil-looking man with the griz- 
zled hair, whom I had seen through the window of the coffee- 
room. crept in with a dim lantern in his hand. 

“ Listen!” he said, in a hoarse whisper, fixing me with his 
wicked eyes. If you are quiet. I will do you no harm; but, if 
you scream or make the least disturbance, I know how to silence 
you. 1 want the ring your friend’s pretty finger wears, and 
\rhatever money and other valuables you have about you. Make 
no resistance, as you value your life!” 

I suppose I grew very white and trembled, for Mabel said, in 
a surprisingly firm voice: 

“ Don’t faint, Effie, but give the man the valise to search; our 
lives are worth more than the trumpery it contains.” 

The robber set his lantern on the table and began undoing the 
straps of our valise, placing it on the floor before the door at 
which he had entered. Where was the guard outside that his 
light did not shine again through our window? He might have 
rescued us: but he did not come. 

Effie,” said Mab, in a whisper to me — she need not have 
whispered, for the robber could not understand our language — 

I am not going to give up my ring without a struggle. This 
man evidently thinks the other door locked on the outside and 
safe against our opening it; otherwise he would not let us stand 
so close to it. I have my hand on the bolt now: there^I have 
slipped it! I am going to dash the robber’s lantern from the 
table with this bundle of shawls; in the darkness we can rush 
out upon the platform and call the guard. Don’t lose your head 
or try to detain me, for I am quite resolved. Be ready to fly 
when I give the signal.” 

Before I could recover from my astonishment at this bold 
plan, there was a crash of glass upon the floor, darkness, a volley 
of Italian oaths, and my sister and I were tearing madly down 
the deserted platform. 

‘‘Guard, guard!” we shrieked, with all the energy of despair; 
but from some inexplicable cause he could not or would not hear 
us, though we saw his form quite plainly in the distance. 

Steps were heard in pursuit of us, and the angry curses of the 
burglar leached our terror-stricken ears, when an inspiration 
seized Mabel. She (>ut her little silver whistle to her lips and 
blew till its peculiar note rang out like a clarion on the still air. 

The sound of hasty footsteps approaching from another direc- 
tion became audible; but whether they were for good or ill we 
could not tell. Mab had lost her courage, and was leaning on 
me, half fainting, when a voice calling in English, “ Hallo! 
What is the matter ? What are you rascals doing ?” jseemed to 
put new life into her.. 


184 THE SON OF MONTE-GRISTO. 

Two men ran toward us, one of whom, to our amazement 
and delight, we recognized as Sidney Weir, our traveling com- 
panion. 

We clung to him, and hovered over him with tears, hysterical 
laughter, and incoherent thanks, and did not notice that during 
our explanations both robber and guard disappeared. Mr. Weir 
said that he had felt uneasy at leaving us alone in the little sta- 
tion, and, finding another belated traveler, they had whirled 
away the night smoking and walking up and down upon the 
road near at hand. He had not told us of his change of plans, 
thinking it might annoy us. When he saw the rough lot of men 
who collected about the coffee-room, he was very glad he had 
waited, for he thought we might be subjected to annoyance, if 
nothing worse. The sound of Mabel's whistle had reached his 
ears as a signal of distress, and he would never feel sufficiently 
thankful that he had given her the little toy. 

“What I fail to understand is this rascally guard deserting 
his post so shamefully,’^ said our rescuer, ringing a huge beU 
which hung near. 

Presently an astonished group of waiters and porters gathered 
round us with lights, and began asking a thousand questions. 
One of the new-comers stumbled over something lying in a dark 
corner. 

“What is this ?” he cried. “Moser, the guard, in a drunken 
sleep! He will lose his place for this, and deserves it too!’' 

It was afterward discovered that Anton Moser, the real guard, 
had been drugged by two ruffians, one of whom had stolen his 
lantern and cap, while the other made his daring attempt upon 
Mabel and me. 

We had lost all interest in the fete at San Vito, and, like 
frightened, disobedient children, our only wish was to return 
home, if the little hotel that we had left could be called home. 
Sidney Weir accompanied us; and. when uncle Wallace returned, 
he found a suitor for Mabel’s hand awaiting his approval. The 
approval w^as not withheld, as Mab’s face betrayed that her heait 
had found its idol. 


[THE END.] 


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Ten Years of His Life. By Eva Evergreen 20 “ 

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“ 60. A Queen Amongst Women and Between Two Sins. B5’ Bertha M. Clay. 20 “ 

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